


Just a Dream

by flammable_grimm_pitch



Series: And They Were Roommates [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magic, Roommates, Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammable_grimm_pitch/pseuds/flammable_grimm_pitch
Summary: A spell that connects Simon and Baz's dreams has been cast over them, and they don't know what the hell to do about it.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: And They Were Roommates [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1770358
Comments: 113
Kudos: 489





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I very rarely write sexy stuff, mostly because I'm ace as hell, and have zero interest in sex. But as we all know, sometimes a story just writes itself. It's just the first part that's mildly spicy, and the rest should be fine.

**Baz**

I know I’m dreaming the moment I open my eyes. I’m in my room ( _our_ room, I should say), sitting on my bed, and standing just two strides from me – shirtless and stretching his arms above his head – is Simon Snow. This is the first sign that I’m dreaming; we’re never undressed around each other. The next sign is that he’s in a pair of jeans, instead of the trousers from his Watford uniform. He wears those silly things even on the weekend, and I think it’s because he’s embarrassed about the state of his summer clothes. 

I hear myself say his name, and he turns his body so that he’s looking at me over one brown, freckled shoulder. If I had a pen, and he’d allow it, I’d create a connect-the-dots image across his back. Even in a dream, I think he’d tell me to fuck off if I asked. 

“Baz?” Snow asks, his brows gently drawing together as he says my name. _Say it again,_ I think, _Say it a thousand times, and I’ll never tire of hearing it fall from your lips._ I lift my hand and beckon Snow closer. The corners of his mouth turn upward, and every thought floating around in my dream brain immediately vanishes, only to be replaced by the thought of kissing Snow’s pink, smiling mouth until my face hurts. 

Snow seats himself on the edge of my bed, facing me, with one foot resting on the floor, and the other tucked against his thigh. He’s right in front of me now, so close that the leg he’s pulled up onto the bed presses against my own. I don’t think I can speak; the words have dried up like a desert well in my throat. 

“Baz,” he says again, his blue eyes regarding me endearingly. (Another sign that this is a dream – when has Snow ever been _affectionate_ with me?) 

“Hi,” I murmur stupidly, as if I’ve suddenly swapped vocabularies with him. Usually it’s me who can manage a conversation, and him with the lead tongue. 

There’s no more talking after this point; it’s a dream, so there doesn’t need to be. Snow leans in, angles his face so that our noses don’t bump together, and presses his mouth to mine. His lips are warm and soft, and taste like mint toothpaste. My hands immediately tangle themselves in his bronze curls, and his settle on the bed on either side of my hips, allowing him to press himself even closer. The dream can barely keep up with me at this point, because my mind is racing through everything I’ve ever imagined doing to Snow. I’m dizzy with the excitement of it all. 

The next thing that I can discern clearly is that I’m laid back on my bed, and Snow’s mouth is against my throat, nipping and kissing as he sees fit. I rake one of my hands across his back and pull him closer, tighter to me. When he reaches my collarbone, he sucks at the skin with purpose, leaving a mark that declares to the rest of the dream world, _“Mine.”_ I’m sure I’m letting out all sorts of ungodly sounds, but I only hear Simon. 

(For the sake of modesty, and because I prefer to hold onto these images for myself, I’ll spare you the rest of the dirty details. We’ll just say that I’m very pleased to be having this dream.) 

Just as Snow brings me to the edge and I start to see stars, I slip into the realm between waking and dreaming, drifting closer with every second to the sound of myself gasping his name. My body has held out this long, but it’s impossible to prevent the groan of relief that slips from my mouth as I come with a force that shudders through me. 

A sharp intake of air from the bed beside mine brings me to a screeching halt, and my eyes snap open. I stare straight ahead at the ceiling, but I can see the outline of my roommate in my peripheral vision. _Fuck._ I’m not alone. Snow is six feet away from me. Snow is awake. And he’s just seen and heard _everything._

* * * * * 

**Simon**

I wake up to what I think was a shout from Baz’s side of the room, and in seconds, I’m sat up in bed with my sword drawn. I quickly rub the sleep from the corners of my eyes so I can see what’s happening, and it takes only a moment for me to guess what’s happening. _Oh my fucking god, Baz is having a dream._ One of _those_ kinds of dreams. The kind that ends with you waking up and racing for the bathroom so your roommate won’t have time to notice the wet mess soaking your Y-fronts. 

I’m still reeling from my own strange dream, so it takes a minute for me to realize that Baz is whimpering my name. My eyes are wide, and I can’t look away from him, even though I know a good roommate would get up and go somewhere else for a bit, and pretend not to have seen or heard a thing. But I’m not a good roommate, and Baz would confirm that if you asked. I allow myself to mouth the words that send my sword back to whatever dimension it sits in until I need it again. 

_How is he still asleep?_ Baz has got handfuls of his blankets clutched in his fists, and he looks as though he might bite through his lip. _Jesus Christ, Simon, look away._ But I can’t, because Baz’s hair is midnight splashed across his pale forehead, and he’s saying my name over and over again – no, gasping it – and it’s doing something funny to my brain. I watch, enraptured, as he tenses up for a moment, lets out a sated groan, and goes slack. The room smells of Baz’s magic: thick, warm cedar smoke. 

A smile crosses his lips for a fraction of a second, displaying just a sliver of his lovely, pearlescent teeth. I hear my own gasp rise in my chest, and I regret it instantly because Baz’s eyes open, and I know he’s heard me. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck; he’s awake. What am I supposed to do, lie back down and pretend I’m asleep? Do I say something – brush it off and say it’s no big deal? Say nothing at all? Say “good morning”? I stay completely still, as though I’m the kid in the T-Rex scene from Jurassic Park. If I don’t move, maybe he won’t notice me. 

After a minute or two, Baz hauls himself up and sits with his back against the headboard. I can’t tell if it’s my eyes not adjusting well to the sunlight in the room or not, but it appears as though his entire upper body is trembling. Could he be having some weird seizure or something? 

“Alright, Baz?” I hear myself ask aloud. _Simon, you fucking idiot. Shut up._

“Did…did you…” he says weakly. The skin of his arms has gone even grayer than I’ve ever seen it, but his cheeks are blazing; he’s beyond embarrassed. I manage to keep my mouth shut this time so I won’t blurt out anything idiotic, but Baz needs me to say _something_. 

When he turns towards me, the vulnerability in his eyes makes my heart drop. To my knowledge, Basilton Pitch has never been afraid – not ever – until today. Does he think I’m going to tell someone? Does he think I’m going to throttle him? I’m trying my hardest to think up something intelligent that will reassure him that I’m not angry (at least, I don’t think I am) when I catch sight of a bruise blooming just above his collarbone, which his undershirt doesn’t quite cover. My brain stutters for a moment as I stare at the purple mark, because I’ve seen it before. _I’ve seen it in my own dreams._ I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and my expression must be betraying that fact, because the look in Baz’s eyes changes from fear to panic. 

I open my mouth to ask about the mark, but before I get the chance, he slaps a hand over his mouth, pitches forward off his bed, and scrambles towards the toilet. He wrenches the door shut behind him, and not a moment too soon; he begins retching with a violence that worries me. It doesn’t sound like anything is coming up, though, likely because he hasn’t eaten since dinner (12 hours ago). This goes on for a bit, and I let him alone, but when it’s been dead silent for nearly 10 minutes, concern sets in. 

“Baz, are you alright?” I call out from my bed. I receive no answer. Biting my lip concernedly, I pad across the hardwood and stand outside the bathroom door. I knock and say his name again – still, nothing. I steel myself for whatever is about to happen, because there’s a real chance that Baz will punch me in the face and knock me the fuck out if I open this door, but I don’t think I have any other option. I _need_ to make sure he’s okay. I can’t deal with the _what if’s._

“Baz, do you want me to get you some ginger ale or something?” I ask, pushing the door open. He’s leaned over the sink, and has crushed some of the marble on either side of the countertop with his insane vampire strength. The stone looks to have turned to rubble as he held onto the counter for dear life. 

“Get away from me,” Baz commands, but he doesn’t turn to look at me. 

“No need to shout," I say defensively. “I’m just checking to make sure you’re not puking up blood or something.” 

“I'm a _vampire,_ you dunce. That would be the one normal thing for me to puke up,” he snarls, shaking his head. “Just leave me alone. I know you’re disgusted, so just…let me be.” 

“Disgusted?” I repeat. Disgusted by what? _The dream?_

“You just saw…I was…” he stumbles over his words. “Never mind, Snow, just go away.” I step forward and put a hand on his shoulder, but yank it away when the sharp, fiery pain of Baz's protective magic zips up my shoulder. 

“You’ve got a bruise on your chest, and I need to see it,” I say, changing my tactics. Clearly, asking nicely isn’t going to work. “Something weird is happening, something _magickal_ , I think, and I can’t be sure unless you show me that bruise.” Baz sighs in annoyance, but he slowly stands up and turns towards me. He’s got a pair of plaid pyjama pants on now that I’m pretty sure belong to me (they must have been lying on the bathroom floor and he threw them on for lack of anything else), but I’m not about to start that argument. 

“I haven't got any bruises, Snow,” Baz tells me, but I’ve already reached out to touch the purple mark marring his perfect, porcelain skin. 

“Where’d you get this, then?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. That’s usually his thing, the eyebrow-raising, but two can play at that game. It’s too close to his neck for Baz to see it without looking in a mirror, so he turns around to inspect the supposed spot himself. 

“What in the…” He trails off, gently brushing a finger along his collarbone when he sees it. The reddish-purple of the bruise means that it’s new. Frowning, he meets my eyes in the mirror. I can’t explain how I know, but I know for certain that he’s withholding something from me. 

“I had a dream that you had a bruise,” I tell him, watching his expression carefully for any sign of recognition. “Right in that same place, even.” 

“When?” he asks, his voice scraping in his throat. “The dream – when did you have it?” 

“Just now. I woke up a minute or two before you did.” It’s my turn to go red in the face as recall the scenes that played out in my head while I slept. 

“What sort of dream?” 

“I think you know very well _what sort of dream,_ you bastard,” I accuse him. I try swallowing to clear the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t help. It just draws Baz’s attention away from my face as he watches the bob of my Adam’s apple. I wish he wouldn’t stare like that; it makes me nervous. “I had a dream that I _gave_ you that bruise.” 

Baz’s face freezes, and his shoulders go stiff as a board. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. 

“I had a dream that you…that you did that, too,” he murmurs softly. 

“And were we snogging in your dream as well?” I inquire, barrelling through the awkwardness that comes with asking such a thing of your roommate. _I can’t believe I’ve just admitted to having a sexy dream about Baz. To his face._

“I think we, er…yeah,” Baz nods robotically. “Yes, that’s what was happening. In my dream. Snogging.” 

“What was I wearing?” I continue on as if this is an everyday sort of conversation that roommates have. Nothing odd happening here. 

“Aleister Crowley, Simon,” he curses, covering his face with his hands. “If I could jump into the moat and be eaten by a merwolf right now, I’d bloody do it.” 

“Sorry, what’s that?” I inquire, suppressing a smile. I’ve never seen Baz so flustered, but it’s really doing something for me. I feel the urge to reach out and run my hand up and down his arm in a gesture of reassurance, but I’m quite certain that he’d bite my entire hand off if I tried. He’s terribly embarrassed about this dream, and I can’t tell if it’s because he enjoyed it, because I saw him enjoying it, or both. 

“JEANS. You were wearing jeans. Fucking hell...” 

“Anything else?” Now I’m just being a dick for the sake of watching him squirm. 

“Nothing else,” he says through clenched teeth. “You didn’t have a shirt on.” 

“And you were in a blue shirt with buttons?” _A blue shirt that hugged you everywhere, that was tight to your arms, that was unbuttoned enough for me to put my mouth—_

“And trousers,” Baz adds quickly, pulling me from my moment of reverie. “I was wearing trousers.” He’s leaning back against the sink, and for once, I appear taller than him by just a hair. 

“We were in your bed, together,” I continue painting the scene, waiting for him to correct me, but he doesn’t. Based on the pained expression on his face, I think that Baz might thank me if I were to light him on fire right now. 

“Okay, I think we’ve established that we had the same dream,” Baz cuts me off abruptly. “We don’t need to compare any further. Let’s just...figure out why it happened, and what we need to do to keep it from happening again.” His cheeks are still flushed a soft, rosy red. A bit of colour in his face makes him look more alive, and I like it. 

“I’m going to cut the shit now,” I tell him, “because if we keep dancing around this whole thing, it’ll take us ages to deal with it. Maybe we should talk to Penny and see if she’s ever heard of a spell—” 

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Baz roars, reaching out suddenly and grabbing hold of my shoulders. He pushes me up against the wall ( _this_ wasn’t in our dream) and holds me there, squeezing my arms so hard that if I were anyone else, they might have broken. “If you tell anyone about this, Snow, I’ll fucking end you.” My self-control has held fast until this moment, but I start to feel the familiar crackle of my own magic swirling within me. Baz must feel it too, I realize, because he loosens his grip a bit, but maintains the rage in his eyes. 

“Alright, so we won’t involve Penny,” I growl back. “Let me go, or I’m going to turn you into a lump of charcoal for your sisters' Christmas stockings.” 

“Fine,” he seethes. Baz thinks he’s subtle, glancing quickly at my lips before he stomps off across the room, but I catch him in the act. For some reason, I feel…well, flattered, I suppose. No one has ever looked at me like this, not even Agatha. No one has ever looked like they _wanted_ me. 

Baz grabs his clothes for the day and kicks me out of the bathroom so he can shower, but demands that I wait for him instead of going for breakfast alone. I almost crawl back into bed so I can hide from it all. I don’t want to have to decide what to do about Baz. I don’t want to have to help him build a wall to split our room into equal halves, or whatever he thinks the solution to this will be. 

When it comes to Baz, I never know what I want. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon is convinced that their shared dream was just a fluke, but Baz isn't so sure...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY, didn't realize I hadn't updated in 9 days. I've been writing a bit every day, and just wasn't feeling that it was quite right until today. Next chapter already has 1000 words written, so fear not, the next update will be available in a day or two!

**Simon**  


I’m shaken awake by a frantic and _extremely_ irate Basilton Grimm-Pitch. He’s practically shouting my name – not sure why, because we’re in the middle of a class. Yawning, I glance around and see that Miss Possibelf is no longer lecturing at the front of the room, and all the desks are empty but for the one I’m occupying. I guess class is over?

“Snow, I’m going to murder you,” Baz says, yanking me out of my seat by my arm. “You couldn’t go a few hours without falling asleep, even after whatever the hell happened this morning?” I’m still not completely awake, but my mouth falls into a pout at his reprimand. 

“I’m sorry,” I huff, “I tried, really! But you know how it is after you’ve eaten a huge breakfast, don’t you? I just…drifted off, I guess.” 

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Baz mutters, scowling darkly at me. With his fingers still clamped firmly around my bicep, he drags me out into the corridor where half the school is milling about, now that classes are done for the day. No one looks twice at us, which is a miracle; Baz and I have such a notorious rivalry that even the first-years have heard the whispers about our biggest rows (possibly because one involved a chimera). Usually, we wouldn’t be caught dead in the same room together. 

“Now hold on just a moment,” I say once I’ve got my bearings. “I don’t remember having any strange dreams. Did something happen to you during class?” 

“Why don’t you speak a little louder so the whole school can hear?” Baz sneers sarcastically over his shoulder. “Better yet, why don’t you go and tell the Mage about this? I’m sure he’d be thrilled to bits.” 

Once we’ve made it out of the building, he releases my arm and storms on ahead of me, determined to put some space between us. I suppose he’s being smart; it’d be weird if anyone saw us talking, or walking side by side across the campus. I’d never hear the end of it from Penny, and I’m sure Dev and Niall would hound Baz for the next week if they saw us so much as breathe the same air. 

From the bottom of the stairs that wind up the turret, I can hear Baz grouching to himself. He spells our door open, and to my surprise, when I reach the top, I see he’s left it open for me. That’s…oddly polite of him. _Since when did we do polite?_

“Uh, thanks,” I mumble in his direction. “The door, I mean. For the door. You left it open. So…yeah. Thanks?” 

“Don’t hurt yourself, Snow,” Baz huffs. His back is turned to me, but I swear I hear him roll his eyes. I’ve known him so long, I can just sense these things. As soon as I’ve shut the door and sat down on my bed, he begins casting spells on it, and the walls around us. 

“Paranoid, are we?” I tease. I don’t have to ask it to know the answer; of course he’s paranoid. It would be catastrophic to his image (and to mine, I suppose) if we were to be overheard when discussing…any of this, really. I get a low growl in return, but he continues his soundproofing work. When he’s finished, he leans his back against the door, crosses one ankle over the other, and regards me coolly. Or, tries to, at least. There’s tension in his shoulders, and he’s standing just about as far from me as he possibly can. 

In the moments before he begins to speak, I recognize in myself a heap of thoughts and feelings around _whatever this is_ that I haven’t addressed yet. Surprise, of course; I’ve never dreamt of Baz the way I did last night. He’s nice to look at – fit as hell, really – but anyone who’s attended a Watford football game would know these things. 

Now I’ve got the image of Baz in his football kit – Watford colours, green and white, with shorts cut to show off the definition in his muscular thighs (wow, where did _that_ thought come from?!) – is stuck in my head, and I’m probably staring at him like a fool. Baz confirms this in the cutting tone he reserves just for mocking me. 

“Close your mouth, Snow,” he orders, “You look like a fish.” He’s wearing an odd expression I’ve not see on him before, and his cheeks are rosier than usual. Maybe it’s that he’s caught me staring at him – practically drooling, really. 

“You’re blushing,” I accuse. 

“You’re an idiot, and no, I’m not,” Baz retorts, _definitely_ blushing now. 

If I didn’t know better, I might think that _I_ was the one who had somehow fallen into Baz’s dream last night, and not the other way around. This morning, I was confused about how a dream like that had ever happened in the first place. But due to recent developments – namely, the realization that I’ve admired the way he looks in his football kit on numerous occasions – I can confidently say that the dream (which I’m still replaying in my head hours later) was _undoubtably_ mine. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

“You’re certain you haven’t tried any new spells lately?” I repeat for what must be the tenth time since we started this discussion. Exasperated, Simon throws an arm across his face and lets out a pained groan. He’s laid back on his bed, and I’m trying my best to keep my eyes from wandering to the skin of his exposed belly; he’s completely oblivious of the fact that his jumper has ridden up. 

“Baz, I can barely do any of the spells I already know,” he reminds me through gritted teeth, “So why on earth would I try something like this?” Simon is quiet for a minute, and without having to look, I know he’s mouthing the words of whatever self-control technique Bunce has been trying to teach him lately – probably counting down from 10, or saying some sort of mantra that’s meant to ground his emotions. The last thing we need is for him to blow the roof off of Mummers House because he’s decided to kill me over a wet dream. I snicker at the thought of trying to explain _that_ situation to the Mage. Irreparable destruction of a thousand-year-old historic building is almost definitely worthy of an expulsion. Snow may be the ‘Chosen One’, but even the Mage has his limits. 

“What if it was just a weird fluke?” Simon says, pulling me from my amused ruminations. “You know how my magic backfires, or malfunctions – whatever you want to call it.” 

“…Okay,” I frown, waiting for him to continue his thought. 

“And you know how the Mage insists that we learn all those nursery rhymes and what have you, to keep our spells up-to-date with the language the Normals are using.” 

“Are you going to get to your point, or will I die of old age first?” I goad him. I know better than to push him like this, but I’m still so shaken by this morning that it’s hard for me to hold it together. _Simon Snow somehow found his way into my dream, and now he probably knows that I’m in love with him._

“Maybe if you’d quit being such a prat, I’d be able to finish a sentence!” Snow shouts, bolting upright. “I’m sorry the sight of me is so repulsive to you, Baz, but if we’re going to figure out what caused this, we’re going to have to make it through a conversation without biting each other’s heads off.” 

_Oh, Simon. As if I could ever look at you and be repulsed._

“You’re right, Snow,” I concede. “I’ve had a poor attitude—” 

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Simon’s snide comment doesn’t make this any easier, but I suppose I deserved that. 

“Shove off and let me apologize,” I snap at him. 

“Fine,” he scowls. “Just get on with it.” 

“I’ve been a real tosser today, and I’m sorry, Simon. I am. Sorry, that is.” 

I swear that every time I make eye contact with this boy and then have to say words, all the good ones fall out of my head as soon as I open my mouth, and I’m forced to grab a handful of those and try to make coherent sentences out of them. I’m not illiterate by any means, but Snow has a way of flustering me like no one else can. Crowley, even my father can expect a formidable opponent in me during an argument. What would he say if he could see me, tongue-tied like a fool by a boy with pretty eyes, and curls made for someone to slip their hands into? 

“Thank you for your apology,” Simon says with a smile. He charges on with his theory about a nursery rhyme gone wrong – a theory I actually think might have some merit – and gives me free reign to write notes on his wall, since it’s too late to borrow a chalkboard from a classroom. I’ll be able to Clean as a whistle the ink off the wall when we’ve solved this mystery. 

For about an hour, we scour the pages of all our textbooks, hoping that one might contain the offending verses. Snow suggested that I try a spell to reverse the connection, but I’m hesitant to try that if I don’t know what it is that’s actually creating the problem. For all I know, I could end up wiping our memories, or worse. I could do without having to remember the events of the last few years, but I don’t dare take that away from Simon. From what little he’s said of his childhood in my presence, I know that he treasures every memory made during his time at Watford. Even, I suspect, the incident with the chimera. He loves a good challenge. 

We’re both exhausted and a bit discouraged at the end of the night. All we have are theories, and all of them are difficult to test without the possibility of severe consequences. Since we have two more days of class this week before we’re off for winter holidays, we’ve agreed that if tonight we have a repeat of last night’s events, we’ll have to make plans to meet over the break. 

The very thought of having a similar dream assures me a sleepless night. A weird dream happening once, Snow could probably ignore, but if he’s present when my mind processes my most intimate thoughts two nights in a row, there’s no way he can pretend that it’s a coincidence. Judging by the short amount of time between pulling his blankets up over his shoulders and the beginning of his soft, rumbling snore, Snow doesn’t have these same qualms; he’s out like a light. Dread builds in my chest when I feel my eyelids start to droop, but somehow, I manage to drift off into an uneasy sleep. 

And for the first little while, as far as I can tell, nothing unusual happens. I don’t feel the tendrils of Simon’s mind poking around within my own, or the warmth that usually accompanies my more amorous dreams. If wonder if this relief I’m feeling is evident in the way I’m breathing, or in the way my body shifts in my sleep. I can sense the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders relaxing as I fall deeper into the darkness. 

But of course, this relief is short-lived, because with my next breath, I open my eyes find myself barefooted in the middle of an unfamiliar wood. A loud, booming crash echoes through the trees behind me, and I tear off into the night; if I’m not mistaken, I’m being followed by something very large. Snow’s ragged, open-mouthed breathing alerts me to his presence beside me. I find his hand clutched so tightly in mine I can feel the thrum of his racing pulse against my palm. 

“Baz, what the hell is this?” He has to shout to be heard over the sound of branches snapping behind us. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I holler, not daring to look over at him in case I lose my footing on a hidden root or stone, “But I’d rather not find out.” 

We haven’t been running for long before Simon’s pace begins to fall out of sync with my own. He’s always been athletic, but he lacks the advantages of vampiric endurance and strength that I possess, and it shows. I tug on his arm encouragingly, hoping he’ll take the hint that we need to speed up, but it’s of no use. He’s fading fast, and even the howl of the creature behind us isn’t enough to give him the boost he needs to continue. 

When he trips on his own feet, which I’m sure must feel like lead right now, I refuse to leave him to be ripped apart (or worse) by our pursuer, so I haul him up off the ground and half-drag him towards the nearest hiding place I can identify: a tight space between some large rocks, which I’m hoping will provide some semblance of cover. Simon limps beside me, and does his best to quiet his breathing. With what feels like moments to spare, we slip between the rocks and out of plain sight. 

When I say this space is tight, I mean that if either of us had eaten another roll at dinner tonight, we might not have both fit. It’s not a cave exactly – more like a crevasse created by the split of an enormous slab of stone, with jagged walls that scrape at our skin with every movement. The space becomes slimmer the further in we go, and it appears that our only exit from is the way we came. I’m betting on our new friend being too big to get in here; it’s really the only chance we have. Once it’s too tight to push on any further, and Snow and I are as close as we can get without being entirely pressed together, we’re finally able to be still. I know it’s only been a few minutes, but it feels like we just ran a marathon. 

“Alright, Basil?” Simon asks, breathing hard; he’s still holding my hand. Granted, the circulation has been cut off for several minutes, so this might be the last time _anyone_ will be able to hold it. 

“Shut up, Snow,” I whisper back. “Stop worrying about me. I’m practically invincible. _You,_ on the other hand, are clearly in pain, and you’re bleeding from somewhere.” Snow’s blood smells warm, but I try to push that thought away. 

“I think it’s my knee,” he murmurs, clenching his jaw as he bends his leg. Even in the black of night, I can see that his pant leg is wet with blood. _Good thing Cook Pritchard had the kitchen fridge stocked this afternoon._

“We’ll have a look at it when we get out of here,” I assure him confidently. The last thing I’m feeling is confidence, but I don’t want him to be afraid. We’ve made it out of every dire circumstance we’ve been in before now, so I feel as though our odds are good. Snow swallows hard, but doesn’t debate our chances; his will to live is much stronger than my own. 

“We _must_ be dreaming,” Simon says, more to himself than me. “But…my dreams don’t usually hurt so much.” He leans forward until his forehead rests against my shoulder, and I can’t help but move a half step closer so that his neck isn’t bent so awkwardly. 

“This is a nightmare, Snow,” I murmur softly. “But when we wake up, I’m certain everything will be alright.” With a low hum, Snow nods against my shoulder, and slowly but surely, his arms snake around my waist. _Perhaps this is a small comfort for him in an otherwise distressing situation._ But just as I’ve given myself permission to relax into his embrace, an ear-splitting shriek cuts through the night. It’s found us. 

Instinctively, I throw my arms around Snow to protect him, and he’s lucky I do, because his knees choose this moment to buckle beneath him. I can’t tell if he’s fainted out of fear, or because he’s bone-tired, but I’m afraid for him. 

“Snow? Hey, wake up,” I whisper urgently, supporting his weight with just my upper body strength. It’d take more than a broad-shouldered teen to make me sweat – I am a vampire, after all. When I dip my head down towards his neck, I’m relieved to hear his blood pulsing strongly in his veins; a bit quicker than it maybe should be, but fear will do that to a person. 

“Hang in there, Si,” I say below my breath as I cradle his head against my chest. I hope he doesn’t wake up suddenly, because the chances of him doing so quietly are slim. As the crunch of branches out in the forest grows louder the closer our foe draws to our hiding place, I wish (and not for the first time) that I had agreed when Simon suggested asking Bunce for help. As embarrassing as it might have been to explain our original situation, I know she would have kept quiet about it. 

And as it turns out, I was right to be concerned about Simon’s bleeding leg; after a few noisy, wet sniffs at the crevasse’s exit, a tentacle-like appendage darts towards us, wraps itself around both Snow and I, and yanks us out into the small clearing before I even have the chance to reach for my wand. One moment, I’m being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste, and the next, I’m flying – not for long, though. A sharp snap sounds from my shoulder as it connects with the ground, and I don’t need to look to know that something in my upper arm is broken. The impact of my fall has knocked the wind out of me, making it impossible for me to do the one thing I desperately want: to shout out to Simon, who is no longer by my side. 

_Crowley, where could he have gone? He was safe in my arms – how the fuck did I let go of him?_

As if he can hear the anguish in my head, Simon cries out to me from across the clearing. 

“Baz! Baz, I’m right here!” Snow’s voice is ragged. He’s come to, he’s discovered that we’ve been separated, and he’s _afraid_. Even the white-hot bolt of pain shooting up my arm can’t stop me from struggling to my feet, because the terror in his voice compels me so. 

As soon as I’m standing, I take off in the direction of his voice, which I realize (much later than I should have) is moving away from me. _Does the creature have him?_ I run and run and run, further than I had from where I woke up in the forest to the place we hid in the rocks. I run despite the pain, despite the sweat pouring down my face, making my hair stick uncomfortably to my skin. I run for an hour, for two hours, and his voice never gets closer. I run so far that the soles of my shoes wear out, and my feet feel as though they must be bleeding. _Will this nightmare never end?_

Finally, my foot catches on a root, and I fall, _hard._ Everything hurts, every fibre of my being. I can’t even move anymore, I’m so beyond exhaustion. Even when I hear Simon’s voice right above me, I don’t have the energy to look up at him. 

“Oh, Baz,” I hear him sigh pitifully, but his voice is strange – higher than normal. I want so badly to see him, to look at him just once more. I thought before that we would make it out of this dream, but the air around me has grown so heavy that I don’t think I’ll be able to move ever again. Even breathing is a struggle. I’m battered and bruised, my arm is broken, and my will to go on isn’t strong enough to overcome all the hurt. 

_Simon, I’m so tired._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's happened to Simon, and where did he disappear to? Will Baz be okay when (if?) he wakes up? And what on earth is causing this strange phenomenon? Stay tuned for more, including a bit of Penelope Bunce POV!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon can't wake Baz from his nightmare, so he calls on Penny to save the day.

**Penny**

A knock on my bedroom door (at least that’s what I think it must have been) wakes me much too early. When I’ve managed to untangle myself from the quilt pulled over my head, a quick peek over at the window tells me the sun isn’t even up yet. Across the room, my roommate Trixie is fast asleep beside her girlfriend, and neither seems to have heard anything. _Perhaps I’m just imagining things?_

“Er, Penny, are you there?” A child’s voice calls out to me from the corridor. _Shit. Not imagining things after all._ I pull on a pair of pyjama trousers and stumble across the room, even managing to trip over a textbook I forgot to put away last night. When I open the door, a bleary-eyed first-year student is waiting for me, wrapped in a bright pink housecoat. I recognize her from the dining hall; she often sits with a friend a few seats down from Simon, Agatha, and I. 

“Everything alright, Rachel?” I ask through a yawn. “S’a bit early, you know.” I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m really not a morning person. Simon insists on eating breakfast the moment Cook Pritchard has it out on the table; I, however, am perfectly fine with cold beans on my toast. 

“Yes, well. Sorry to wake you, but Simon Snow showed up out front five minutes ago and practically tried to kick down the front door,” she explains, glancing around cautiously, as though Simon might be able to hear her. “He said it’s urgent, and that he needs you to come to Mummers House right away.” 

“Merlin and Morgana,” I curse, “what now?” _And why now?_ I give the girl a weary smile, and shoo her back down the hall towards her room. “Thank you, Rachel. I’m terribly sorry that you’ve had to get up so early. Go back to bed now, and I’ll deal with Simon.” More like ‘I’m going to murder Simon,’ because I’ve looked at my watch and seen that it’s barely quarter past five. 

“Oh, he’s already gone,” Rachel calls back softly as she shuffles down the corridor. 

“He’s gone back to Mummers House?” I ask, frowning. That’s not like him; if he needed something, he wouldn’t leave until he saw me. “He’s not waiting downstairs?” 

“He said it’s urgent,” Rachel repeats with a shrug. “Something about his roommate? He looked rather worried, and was off as soon as I’d taken his message and promised to wake you.” 

_Something about Baz? What in the blazes could that be about?_

“Thank you again,” I say appreciatively. “And if you would, Rachel – please don’t tell anyone about this. Basil is…difficult to get along with at times, and I’m sure he’d not want rumours floating around the school.” Rachel effusively assures me that not a word will pass her lips about the subject ever again. She’s only a first-year student, but even she knows better than to cross the irascible Basilton Pitch. 

As soon as I’ve closed my door, I spell myself out of my pyjamas and into my uniform, rip a brush through my hair, and brush my teeth. It might be urgent, but Simon and Baz aren’t about to see me looking a mess, especially on a school day. 

When I arrive at Simon and Baz’s door a few minutes later (unseen by any other residents of Mummers House, of course), I don’t receive any answer when I knock, so as I usually would, I just go in. 

“Simon, it’s me,” I call out softly. The room is dark, as Baz prefers it that way (probably a vampire thing), but it makes me nervous that I can’t see either of them. “Simon?” I whisper, pulling my wand out as I approach his bed. But before I can say, “Let there be light!” the bedside lamp turns on, illuminating the room. 

* * * * * 

I think I can safely say that the last situation I expected to walk into this morning was my best friend in bed with his vampire roommate. Truly, as I ran from the girls’ residence building to Mummers House, I thought that I might find a mysterious pool of blood, or Baz with a black eye and a missing tooth; even the appearance of the Humdrum would have been less of a surprise to me than this. But sure enough, I see that Simon is sat back against the headboard of Baz’s bed, with his sworn enemy asleep in his arms. 

“Oh, Penny – _thank Merlin you’re here,_ ” Simon sighs gratefully, completely oblivious to the wide-eyed look of shock on my face. “Something’s wrong with Baz, and I don’t know how to fix it.” This is the first time I’ve ever heard him speak with any concern for Basilton Pitch in all the years I’ve known them both. Usually, he’s accusing Baz of plotting – or of actually attempting – to maim or kill him. 

“Simon…what on earth are you doing?” I hiss at him, drawing closer to him, my wand still extended. _Has he gone mad?_ It isn’t until I’m nearly sitting on the bed I see what Simon is trying to tell me: Baz is whimpering in his sleep, and his face is twisted into a painful grimace. 

“He won’t wake up,” Simon explains worriedly, shifting his leg over to give me some space on the edge of Baz’s mattress. “I’ve shaken him, I dumped water on him, even yelled in his ear. Nothing.” 

As Simon blabbers on, I notice how different Baz looks than usual. He’s still pale, of course, but he’s quite sweaty, and the skin beneath his eyes is bruised a dark purple. One of Simon’s hands cradles his face, occasionally wiping the tears streaming down Baz’s cheeks, and the other is threaded into the boy’s thick, black hair. The expression on Simon’s face is one of deep concern, something I’ve never known him to have for Baz. 

“How long has he been like this?” I ask, accepting the space he’s created at the edge of Baz’s bed and taking a seat. 

“20 minutes, maybe?” Simon estimates. “I woke up because he shouted, and ever since then, he’s been muttering like this. Won’t stop crying, either.” From the way his brow is creased, and the tension in his body, it seems to me as though Baz is having a nightmare. 

“And this has never happened before?” I wonder, reaching out to give Baz’s shoulder a squeeze. Just as Simon warned me, nothing happens. I carefully lift one of his eyelids, and see that his iris is a much darker grey than usual, but I have no clue what that might mean. 

“No, never,” Simon says, but he immediately retracts his answer. “Well – okay, so. There’s um, something that we – that I, rather – forgot, or um, decided, because, well, Baz asked me not to say anything—” Simon is stumbling over his words worse than he usually does, and I can’t understand what he’s saying at all. 

“Slow down, Simon,” I urge him. “Has this happened before? A nightmare like this?” His eyebrows draw together, and he chews at his lip as though he’s done something wrong. 

“Baz always has nightmares, but this is different,” he mumbles quietly. “…Pen, there’s something I need to tell you.” I wave my hand, urging him on. 

“Yesterday morning, Baz and I had the same dream. It was bizarre. We talked about it, he asked me not to tell anyone because it was…well, it was awkward. We agreed to look into it as soon as we got the time.” Simon’s expression is stoic, but it’s obvious to me that he’s shaken about all of this. “I thought…it might have just been a fluke, some weird thing that happened because of my magic.” Simon swallows hard, and he glances down quickly at Baz, who has stopped crying for a moment. “But it happened again tonight – that we had the same dream – and I think that Baz is stuck in it.” 

“So…you think you’re having the same dream?” I ask, slightly confused. “Or you’re having similar dreams, about the same sorts of things?” 

“Same dream,” Simon tells me, entirely confident. “Exact same dream. Last time, I woke up first, and then Baz did a minute later, but this time is different. He’s…lost, somehow.” As if Baz knows we’re talking about him, he begins mumbling again. He’s not understandable, but it’s evident through his tone and his pained expression that something is frightening him. 

“You’re not going to tell me what the dream was about?” I ask curiously. 

“Pen, have you ever heard of a spell that connects two people through dreams?” Simon asks, ignoring my question (though whether he does it on purpose or not, I can’t tell). “Or of things happening in dreams coming to life?” I think over the lessons we’ve had on prophecies, dreams, and visions, but no spells come to mind. _And what does he mean by ‘coming to life’?_

“Not off the top of my head, no,” I say, frowning. “But how can you be sure it was the exact same dream, Simon?” I’m stuck on this assertion of his, because, I’ve never heard of such a thing happening. “Maybe you told him something about your own dream, and he mentioned dreaming about a similar topic, or…?” 

“Baz woke up with this, um, this bruise? And he didn’t have it before,” Simon explains, staring at the hand toying with a lock of Baz’s hair. He won’t look at me, and his forehead is creased with frustration. “Same place as in the dream, same colour and everything.” 

“And you didn’t just dream it because you saw it earlier in the day?” I ask. “You are roommates, so couldn’t it just have been—” 

“Jesus Christ, Penny, we shagged, alright?! That’s what I’m trying not to tell you, because it’s not your business!” Simon shouts at me, his cheeks flaming red. “We had the same bloody dream, and I’m sure of it because I bruised Baz’s neck, and now it’s there in real life.” He tilts his back against the wall and closes his eyes, giving me a chance to silently kick myself for prying into his dream when it was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. 

“Oh. That’s um. Yeah, okay,” I stammer, unsure of what would be the most supportive thing to say in this moment. “Well, those kinds of dreams happen, Simon. Nothing wrong with that. You don’t get to choose what you dream.” What the hell are you supposed to say when your best friend tells you he’s dreaming about the bloke who’s been his nemesis since they were twelve? _Not that, apparently._

“Oh yeah?” Simon asks sarcastically, opening his eyes to stare me down. “Have you had these kinds of dreams about Trixie, then? Or maybe Agatha? Hmm? _No_ , I didn’t think so.” His arms tighten protectively around Baz, as though I’ve insulted one or both of them. “I don’t know what’s so hard about just believing what I say.” 

“Si, I’m so sorry,” I apologize, reaching out to touch his arm. “I was asking all the wrong questions, and I’m sorry. Truly.” Simon mutters under his breath, but doesn’t pull away from me. My hand is resting on his forearm when Baz begins to thrash in Simon’s arms. I leap backwards, dodging a pale, balled-up fist. 

“Hey, hey,” Simon soothes, shifting his hands so that he can hold Baz’s arms against his sides. “Basil, it’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.” The teen continues to struggle, and his vocalizations turn from whimpers to recognizable words. 

“Simon, where are you?” Baz cries out, his voice cracking. “Simon, please! Don’t let it hurt you!” The anguish in Baz’s voice sends a shiver up my spine; he’s dreaming that Simon is in danger. 

“What do we do?” Simon asks me, his eyes wild with panic. “Penny, help him! He thinks I’m hurt or something. Please, wake him up!” I search my brain for a spell that might pull Baz from his nightmare, or at least change the subject matter. There are a few I think might work, but I have to make sure I phrase the spell just right to avoid any unintended consequences. It makes sense to me know why Simon called for me in the first place; his spellwork is so unstable that he would surely have caused Baz harm had he tried using magic to soothe him. 

I nearly smack myself when the perfect combination of spells comes to mind; it’s so simple, I nearly missed it. Simon continues to hold Baz’s arms at bay as I reach out to touch his forehead. I imagine a flow of power and intention flowing down my arm, through the amethyst ring on my finger, and into Baz’s mind as I speak two phrases I’m certain should do the trick. 

_**“Sweet dreams! Rise and shine!”**_ It occurs to me a moment too late what might have happened had my mind slipped on my second spell, but when Baz doesn’t begin to glow, and instead his face relaxes and his eyes start to flutter, I know my intentions remained true. Simon glances between Baz and I hopefully, waiting for him to wake up. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, grateful that he can stop restraining Baz now. One of his hands returns to Baz’s head and strokes his hair gently, and the other rests over the young man’s heart. I’ve always wondered whether Baz has a heartbeat, but I’ve done more than enough damage to Simon by asking questions today, so I decide to save that one for another time. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Shortly before I wake up, my frantic search for Simon comes to a halt. The dark night sky quickly shifts from black to a lovely orange-pink, and I hear Simon’s voice loud and clear ahead. He sounds concerned, but I know immediately that he’s safe. The creature that chased us through the night is unable to hold him hostage in the light of day. 

When I open my eyes, I see that Snow and Bunce are hovering over me as though I’m an interesting bug they’ve found on the sidewalk. Well, I suppose Simon looks much too sympathetic to think I’m a bug, but Bunce looks to be about five seconds from whipping out a magnifying glass and a jar. 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re awake,” Simon sighs in relief; his head lolls forward, and I swear he’s about to cry. 

“Um, I’m just going to…” Bunce says hesitantly, jerking her thumb towards the door, but she makes eye contact with me and seems to feel awkward about leaving without first explaining her presence. “Good morning, Basil. I was just going.” 

“Bunce,” I manage with a nod. She doesn’t explicitly own to having used magic to wake me, but the scent of sage hangs in the air, similar to but distinct enough from that of marijuana that I know she’s recently been casting spells, and not lighting up a joint with Simon in the wee hours of the morning. The door gently clicks shut, leaving Simon and I alone. 

As soon as the thought of ‘alone’ hits me, I also realize that I am lying against Simon’s chest, and that my body is cradled between his legs. I sit up in bed as though I’ve been burned, leaving Snow momentarily confused. Really, he’s perpetually got an expression of confusion written over his face, but this one is specific to our situation; his heavy eyebrows are drawn together, and his mouth is agape. 

“What are you doing in my bed?” I inquire with a sneer. Without needing him to tell me, I know that he’s been holding me for the sake of my comfort, but my voice is reflexively suspicious. I regret my tone when Snow’s expression hardens, and he hauls himself out of my bed and into his own. 

“Well, I was _trying_ to help you get out of that dream, because you were screaming bloody murder for a while there,” he growls, yanking his blankets up and crawling beneath them, “But clearly I should have just left you alone.” He’s in a pair of plaid pyjama trousers (the ones with a small tear down the outside seam of one thigh, revealing a bit of his golden skin) and a _Watford Football_ hoodie with the hood pulled up over the bronze mess of curls he has yet to brush into submission for the day. 

I realize after a moment that it’s _my_ football hoodie he’s wearing, because Simon and his tree-trunk thighs go out for the school’s rugby team. Footie is my thing, though Snow attends all the games, rain or shine. He must have found it on top of the laundry basket at the end of my bed and pulled it on in order to fetch Bunce in the cool of the morning. 

“Thank you,” I croak, offering my meagre appreciation to Snow’s back, which is turned to me. “For waking me up, that is.” He grunts in response, but I can’t tell how he means it if I can’t see his face – that wonderful, freckly face with its moles and blue eyes and soft, pink lips I wanted to kiss the moment I opened my eyes and saw it suspended above me. 

We sit in silence for what could be either ten minutes or two hours, listening to the rise and fall of the other’s breath. Simon is restless, though, and every minute or two, he readjusts his blankets or shifts his body. Eventually, I turn towards him and see that he’s been watching me as I stared up at the ceiling, imagining him staring down at me. 

“We should probably talk about it,” I tell him gently. “The dream, I mean.” 

“I know,” he says, swallowing apprehensively. I want to reach out across the space between our beds and rest my hand around the curve of his throat, to feel his pulse beneath my fingers. I want the beat of his heart to remind me that Snow is alive, and in return, I’ll pretend not to be dead. 

“I thought that _thing_ had taken you,” I tell him, my voice wobbling slightly. “I couldn’t keep up, and I was so…so scared.” 

“I tried to tell you,” he whispers, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he recounts the dream in his head. I want to join him, to protect him from the tentacle-creature, to hold his hand again as we run for our lives. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.” He says it just loud enough for me to hear it. 

“Are you hurt?” I ask suddenly, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed as I sit up. “Did you check yourself for injuries?” Simon frowns, realizing that he hasn’t done so. I think about the bruise Snow left over my collarbone, a mark left by a kiss that I’ve secretly hoped will remain on my skin forever. 

“No, I wasn’t thinking about it.” 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

_I wasn’t thinking about myself,_ I almost say. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

“Well, are you going to just lie there like a sloth, or are you going to take that hoodie off so we can have a look?” I ask, my voice a bit indignant. I _am_ angry, I realize; Snow could be bleeding from a wound, or have some terrible internal injury he hasn’t even noticed because he was too busy caring about my wellbeing instead of his own. His cheeks flush pink at the suggestion that he get undressed in front of me. 

“Not like that, Snow,” I say, rolling my eyes. But I think we both know that it is _like that,_ to some extent. 

“You too, then,” Snow challenges me, his eyes raking down my body. I’m in a white undershirt and a pair of striped boxer shorts, so I have on even less than him. 

“Fine, then,” I say glibly. _Did that sound flirtatious?_

“Fine,” Simon repeats. 

We both stand from our beds at the same time, which puts us much closer than I’d intended while I’m in my underwear. I step to the side to give him more space, and he moves in the same direction, so we bump shoulders. 

“Crowley, Snow, walk much?” I snap at him. He scrunches up his nose and gives me a snarky look, and as though I’ve suddenly become my sister Mordelia’s age again, I stick my tongue out at him in retort. It’s obvious we’re both on edge. We move out into the open area of our room and give each other plenty of space. 

“So I’ll just – um, yeah,” Simon stutters, shifting his gaze between the floor and me several times as he fidgets with the hem of his sweater. I avert my eyes slightly so as not to seem like I’m staring, but I think we both recognize what’s going on here. Snow peels off his sweater and shirt in one go, and then sets his hands on his hips. Now it’s impossible for me not to look at him; his chest is just as freckled and speckled as his face, and it takes all of my self-control not to step forward and run my hands across his skin. 

“Your turn,” he says, clearing his throat. He gestures towards my shirt with a tilt of his chin. Suddenly, I feel achingly self-conscious. Snow’s body is stupidly perfect, what with his toned arms, and a few wisps of bronze chest hair that declare to the world that he’s a man. _Crowley, what a man._

I tug my shirt off, toss it onto the end of my bed, and fold my arms across my pale chest. Snow sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of my ribs, which are noticeably more visible than they should be beneath my skin. I lost a significant amount of weight when I was kidnapped by the fucking numpties, and I haven’t been eating enough to fill out again since I returned to school at the end of October. 

“I know it’s bad,” I say, recognizing an edge of shame in my voice. “Just look me over so I can get dressed again, and I’ll do the same for you.” 

He doesn’t need to, but Simon comes forward until he’s about two feet from me, and defends his decision with the lame excuse of, “Penny says I need glasses”. I shiver in the cool air of our room (Simon sleeps with the window open, even in the bloody middle of winter), and in an attempt to warm myself, I rub my palms up and down my arms. 

He reaches out and takes my wrists gently in his hands, guiding my arms to my sides so he can get a good look at me. I stare at the floor, not wanting to see the pained expression on his face as he inspects me for injuries. It’s unnecessary, but he touches the tips of two fingers to my collarbone, skating over the purple mark his lips left on in yesterday morning’s dream. When he’s given me the once-over, he sets his warm, large hands on my shoulders and turns me around so he can have a look at my back. 

“At least buy me dinner first,” I mumble sarcastically, earning an amused snort from my roommate. When Simon’s eyes sweep over my back, he inhales slowly through his nose, and I can almost hear his teeth groaning as he clenches his jaw tight. 

“Does this hurt?” he asks me, setting his fingers lightly against the skin of my shoulder. 

“Does what hurt?” I turn my head so I can peer over my shoulder, and I see the beginning of what Snow is fuming about. An angry, red line of circular welts stands out across my back, stretching from my left shoulder to my right hip, based on the way Snow’s fingers move across my back. He touches one of the welts and I wince, earning an apologetic grimace. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Whatever that creature was, its tentacles must have torn through your shirt.” 

“I’m not going to die, Snow,” I huff, trying my best to seem as though he’s inconveniencing me. “Now is that all? Can I put my shirt back on? 

“Not until you’re done with me,” he says, pouting slightly. 

I don’t realize until I see the amused smirk on his face that I’ve been biting my lip as I look over the skin of his chest and arms, but I really can’t help it. I roll my eyes and ask him to turn around, which he does without comment. A large bruise blooms over his shoulder blade, but doesn’t seem to be bothering him much. When I measure the size of it by placing my palm over top for comparison, Snow lets out a long sigh as my cool hand provides some relief to the area. 

“Well, you don’t seem to be mortally wounded,” I tell him, “So that’s a plus. We still have no idea why this is happening, but I don’t know that we could have gotten any closer to actually dying in a dream than we just did.” Simon turns quickly towards me, and because I don’t lower it, my hand rests over his heart. 

“I thought I was about to watch you die,” Snow tells me plainly, ignoring my attempt at lightening the conversation with a touch of humour. “I was absolutely terrified, Baz. We need to figure this out, and fast, because I can’t…” He stops himself, but I know what he’s trying to say: “I can’t watch that happen to you again.” 

“Come to Hampshire with me for the break, then,” I insist, meeting his gaze and holding it. “You can’t just stay here alone, especially if we keep having these dreams. It’s safest for us to stay together. And,” I continue, trying my hardest to convince him this is necessary, “I’m certain my family’s library will have something helpful. We have more spellbooks and other magickal texts than we know what to do with, and if we can’t find an answer there, I’m sure my father or stepmother would know where we could.” _Simon Snow, come with me; please._

* * * * * 

**Simon**

“Come to Hampshire with me for the break,” Baz pleads gently. He says we might be able to find something to help us in his family library; he says his family won’t mind the extra guest. What he doesn’t say, but I know he’s thinking it: “I can’t stand the thought of being without you.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz take the train to Hampshire for winter break, and get settled in at Pitch Manor.

**Baz**

The train ride from the town outside Watford to Hampshire feels longer than it ever has before, and I’m blaming it entirely on Simon Snow. I’ve never sat in a train compartment with someone so antsy. He changes the way he’s sitting nearly every minute, as if it’s impossible for him to get comfortable, and his breathing has never been louder. If I weren’t in love with him, I’d bloody strangle him without remorse. 

I’ve changed into a more casual outfit for the trip home because I refuse to wear the school uniform even a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Simon’s insisted upon wearing it on the train, but based on the coin purse of a travel bag he’s packed, he’s not got much else to wear. I slip down in my seat and rest my feet against the bench across from me, where Simon is currently curled up in like a pretzel. He’s looking out the window, but knowing Snow, his mind could be a hundred different places. I consider leaving him alone, not trying to make conversation just for the sake of it, but I like the sound of Simon’s voice, especially when he’s telling a story. 

“So what do you usually do during holiday breaks?” I inquire, taking Snow by surprise. He starts to scowl, thinking I’m asking in order to mock him or something, but when he sees that I’m genuinely curious, his expression relaxes into one of only moderate discomfort. 

“Usually, I’d stay with Agatha’s family, but that’s—” 

“Yeah, of course,” I nod sympathetically. “S’too bad.” He and Agatha broke up a few weeks ago, by no fault of my own. 

“She thought it’d be too awkward,” Simon shrugs. 

“What about Bunce?” 

“Penny’s mum isn’t a huge fan of me, mostly because all the times Penny’s gotten into serious trouble, it’s been with me,” Simon explains dourly, “So the Bunce's was off the table as well. Penny insisted that I come anyway, but I don’t want to make things difficult between her and her mum.” 

He does well to hide how much this change of plans has hurt him, but then, Snow always has been fond of bottling it all up until he can’t handle it any more. I’ll have to be cautious over the next few days so as not to push him _too_ far. My family will behave themselves, but there comes a point when a houseguest has destroyed enough of one’s home to outstay their welcome; I’d prefer for it to not reach that point because of me. 

“What would you have done if I hadn’t asked you to stay with me, Christmas pudding with the Mage?” I ask a few minutes later, when Snow’s brow has finally smoothed out. His eyes flicker over to meet mine momentarily, and he clears his throat. 

“Cook Pritchard was going to leave a list of meals out for me, and I had some schoolwork to do,” he tells me. “The Mage is always occupied with some project or another, so there’s no chance he’d have planned anything.” This surprises me somewhat; I’d always imagined the Mage as a bit of an overbearing father in Snow’s life. But he wouldn’t even take the time to have a Christmas dinner with the kid he’s had guardianship of for years? 

“Well, you won’t be lacking for food or company where we’re headed,” I say with a slight smirk. “My family is _very_ curious to finally meet my roommate.” Simon frowns as he considers my words. 

“They aren’t going to call in a hit on me with the Old Families, are they?” he asks with slight concern. “Because that would make for a bit of an awkward holiday.” I roll my eyes at his question, but recognize that from his perspective, it’s not unfair to wonder. The Pitches and Grimms aren’t well known for their love of Simon Snow. 

“Despite what you may think of us, Snow,” I say dryly, “My parents aren’t the sort of people to try and off someone that’s been invited to stay with us. I can’t say my father will be particularly thrilled by your presence, but I can assure you that he’ll be respectful.” Unless, of course, it somehow comes out that I’ve invited Snow for the holidays because I’m absolutely mad about him, or that we’ve been having connected dreams in which we snog until we can’t breathe anymore. That might make Simon’s stay a little more tense than I’m anticipating it will be. 

“Wait, you haven’t told your family I’m coming with you?” Simon asks, his forehead creasing with concern. “Baz, this is kind of a big deal. Don’t you think they’ll want to know so they can, I dunno, put some sheets out on the couch for me?” 

“You say it as if I’m introducing you as my boyfriend or something,” I snort, realizing too late how odd that probably sounded. “It felt like a bigger hassle to tell them ahead of time than it would be to just announce it when we get there. I’ll say it was a last-minute decision, and that we’re working on a project for school. Not a big deal at all.” _Oh, to have parents that don’t really give a shit about your life._

Simon's cheeks flush just a bit, and he starts to stammer out a sentence that I know he’ll never finish properly. 

“Seriously, just relax,” I say, tilting my foot sideways to give his leg a reassuring tap. “Everything will be fine. You won’t starve, you won’t mysteriously die in your sleep, and…wait, do you actually think you’ll be sleeping on a _sofa_?” This assumption of his almost has me giggling. As if my stepmother would ever let a guest sleep on a sofa. Snow doesn’t know it yet, but our house has enough bedrooms to comfortably sleep half the students at Watford. 

“Well, I don’t know how your family does things,” Simon says defensively, “So I’m not assuming I’ll be in a guest bedroom or anything.” The thought of Snow asleep in my bed beside me flashes across my mind, and I push it away quickly. I can still barely believe the way he held me during my nightmare this week, so there’s no use adding any extra nonsense to my fantasy world. 

The train begins to slow as it approaches the station where it will stop for a half-hour before continuing south, and Simon excuses himself and slips out into the corridor (probably to use the toilet). While he’s gone, I pull out my phone and send a quick text to our housekeeper, letting her know that I’ll need a bedroom made up for a guest. I cringe slightly when I think about how Simon’s perception of me might change when he sees the house, or when he finds out that my parents employ housekeepers, a nanny, and a cook. Simon hasn’t even had a mother around to keep a home; this experience will be completely foreign to him, and may very well further entrench his dislike of me. 

But I knew the risk I was taking when I invited him, and it’s a risk I’m willing to take. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

Baz hasn’t slept well all week, and he’s struggling to hide his exhaustion. He keeps peppering me with questions and forcing himself to keep his eyes open and listen to my boring answers. He won’t say it, but I know he’s afraid of having another nightmare. I assure him (subtly, of course) that I’m not tired, and that I’ll stay awake and keep an eye on his belongings so he can catch some shut-eye, but he politely declines every time I offer. 

We’re an hour from our destination when I decide I can’t watch him suffer anymore. With a heavy sigh, I leave my side of the small compartment and seat myself on the bench next to Baz, who eyes me warily. 

“Snow, what do you think you’re doing?” he asks with a yawn. He doesn’t even have the energy to be witty and sarcastic, two of the things I associate most with Baz. 

“I’m going to sit here, and you’re going to lie down for an hour and have a nap,” I instruct. “You can rest your head on my legs, and I’ll wake you when we arrive in Hampshire.” Baz narrows his eyes, and his lip curls in distaste at being told what to do. 

“No,” he says coldly. “I’m not that tired, so just let it go already.” 

“Basilton, your parents are going to be horrified when they see you,” I say, gritting my teeth; the last thing I want is to lose my temper with him before we've even made it to his house. “You look like you’re halfway to the grave, no pun intended. I’ll wake you if anything exciting happens, like if the canteen cart comes by with salt and vinegar crisps or something.” 

“What part of ‘leave me alone’ is too difficult for you to understand?” Baz nearly shouts, his eyes blazing as he stares me down. “You’re not my mother, so quit acting like it!” As soon as the words leave his mouth, his expression falls; he knows he’s made a mistake. This time, though, I’m not letting it slide. 

“Nice one, Baz,” I say, training my eyes on the pattern of the rubber flooring in our compartment. “Your mother’s dead, and I’ve never had one; what a clever choice of words.” For once in my life, I make a biting remark without fucking up and stumbling over my words. From the corner of my eye, I can see that Baz’s mouth is hanging open; it seems that I’ve rendered him speechless. 

“Snow…” He murmurs, unsure how to proceed. Baz rarely feels any remorse – or the need to apologize – for the things he’s said. He doesn’t know what to do. 

“I need you to just…quit hating me long enough for us to get the dream thing figured it out,” I tell him evenly, “And part of that is trusting me sometimes.” 

“Trusting you,” Baz repeats with a frown. This seems to be a new concept for him. 

“Yeah. That’s what friends do; they trust that the other person is looking out for their best interests,” I explain. “Like, Penny always gets upset when I eat too fast because she thinks I’m going to choke. So when she tells me to slow down, I trust that she’s saying it out of love, and not because she wants me to die of starvation.” Baz stares at me blankly, and at first, I think it’s because I chose an odd example to make my point. 

“Friends,” he says, drawing the word out as though he’s saying it for the first time. “You think we’re _friends_ , Snow?” He’s not being sarcastic, and he’s not mocking me; I think the idea of us being friends has truly never crossed his mind. 

“Baz, we’ve seen a lot more of each other than most friends ever do,” I tell him with a straight face. “I think it would be silly to pretend we aren’t something other than enemies. Don’t you want to at least _try_ not attempting murder every time we’re in the same room?” Somehow, Baz’s almost-grey skin flushes bright red, and he turns towards the window until the blood and heat drain from his cheeks. 

“You’re an absolute menace, you know,” he mumbles just loud enough for me to hear. After a minute of dealing with some internal conflict unknown to me, Baz finally agrees to lie down for a rest – on the condition that I wake him right away if I start to feel drowsy. 

I don’t have much packed in my travel bag, but I do happen to have a soft jumper for Baz to use as a pillow. I fold it into the best approximation of a rectangle I can manage (it’s still awful) and set it over my legs to provide just a bit of comfort. Once Baz has manoeuvred all six feet of his body onto the cushioned bench seat, with his head on my lap, he lets out a sigh of relief and finally closes his eyes. 

“If you ever tell anyone about this,” he threatens quietly, “I’ll dismember you and hide your body where no one will ever find you.” 

“Shut up and close your eyes," I say, biting my lip to keep from smiling. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Snow is completely unaware of himself sometimes. I’ve barely closed my eyes before he’s using my shoulder as an armrest, and a minute later, I feel his fingers skate across my forehead as he tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. It seems counterintuitive, but the warmth of his skin against mine almost has me shivering. Since he hasn’t brought a book or anything to entertain himself, Snow hums to himself and watches the gradual shift from one landscape to another out the window. 

When I wake up nearly an hour later, I still feel like I’ve been hit by a bus, but I recognize that this is probably the longest I’ve slept in at least five days. I open my eyes to find that I've managed to shift my entire body around as I slept so that instead of facing towards the opposite side of the compartment, my nose is tucked up against Snow’s belly, and I’ve got a fistful of his shirt in my hand. I inhale his familiar scent - school-issued soap - and experience an incredible rush of nostalgia for our childhood, a longing to be tucked away together in our turret bedroom at Watford. 

As I struggle to sit up because of the odd way I've been squashing myself to fit across the bench, Snow takes hold of my shoulders and reorients my body so that I’m seated upright with my feet on the floor. While my eyes are still adjusting to the light, Snow reaches out and gives my hair a bit of a ruffle with one hand, an act to which I’m extremely opposed. 

“What the fuck, Snow?” I ask, smacking his hand away. “Keep your hands to yourself, will you?” 

“Your hair was just a bit, uh...” He attempts to explain himself clearly, but gives up when he can’t think up a polite way to say ‘a proper mess’. 

“Yes, well, maybe just direct me to a mirror next time instead of trying to fix it yourself,” I grouch, pulling out my phone. Using the screen to see my reflection, I part my hair the way I like it, giving Snow the occasional dirty look so that he knows not to pull that again. 

It isn’t that I don’t want his hands in my hair; my dreams would argue otherwise. I’d just prefer to be in control of my appearance if at all possible, especially when I’m about to see my family for the first time in a few months. I know that I’ve not gained much weight back since Fiona rescued me from my captors in October, and my current lack of sleep certainly won’t be of much help in convincing my parents that I’m well enough to remain at school for my last term. 

“You’re anxious about going home,” Snow says as he watches me continue to fuss with my hair. 

“I’m anxious about seeing my family,” I correct him. "I'm not going 'home'." 

“So you wouldn’t call your parents’ house your home?” Simon seems curious about the distinction I’ve made. 

“Definitely not,” I say with a dark chuckle. “Home is where you grew up, where all your best memories live.” What I don’t say: _I grew up at Watford; in my mother’s office, on the soccer pitch, with Dev and Niall…with you._

“I suppose you’re right,” he nods thoughtfully. “I would never think to call any of the places I stayed growing up a ‘home’. Except for Watford, of course.” 

Out the window, I start to recognize familiar landmarks as we reach the edges of the town. A sense of dread continues to build in my chest, but I don’t realize the dry warmth of the magicI’ve begun to emanate until Snow puts a hand on my shoulder. 

“Just breathe, mate,” he encourages me with a gentle smile. “You’ve spent too much time around me – you're starting to seep when you get worked up.” He’s right, of course; another minute of that and I might have sent the entire train car up in flames. 

“I’ll be fine,” I say, shrugging his hand away. Simon rolls his eyes at my stubbornness, but because he knows me, he knows better than to take it personally. I wasn’t raised by highly emotional people (with the exception of Fiona), and was discouraged from making a scene on the occasion that my emotions get the best of me. My father would tell me to take a walk, to take my feelings and experience them elsewhere. 

* * * * * 

As the train pulls into the station, I retrieve my bags from the overhead luggage rack; I’m too anxious to just sit around and wait until we’ve stopped moving. If Bunce was here, I know she would cast a spell over me to calm my nerves. I'd do it, but it doesn't have the same effect if I do it myself, and Simon is such a terrible spell-caster that I’d much rather he refrain from trying to help. He grabs the few belongings he's brought along and follows me down the corridor to the external door of the car, and though I know he’s internally chastising me, I convince him to jump down onto the pavement before we’ve come to a complete stop. 

My childhood nanny, a Normal who looks after my younger siblings now, is waiting for me on the platform. I don’t know whether to be relieved or even more anxious that my father didn’t come to pick me up instead. 

“Vera,” I smile, greeting her with a delicate hug. She’s in her regular clothes, not the uniform she typically wears at the house, which is somewhat of a surprise. I suppose it is rather chilly at this point in the year, and a dress isn’t particularly practical to wait in outside. 

“Basilton,” she replies, looking me up and down once I’ve drawn back. She reaches out and tugs at the fabric of my jumper, frowning when she sees how loose it is on me. “What, have you not eaten at all since you went back to school?” Vera inquires, poking and prodding at me despite my protests. 

“I’ve been eating just fine, thank you,” I scowl down at her. “Nice to see you, too.” Vera shakes her head and regards me with a pitying expression; she really has tried her best to keep me in line over the years, but I think she’s under the impression that I’m defying her orders to put on some weight and get more sleep on purpose. Before she can castigate me any more, I glance back and find that Simon is hovering awkwardly at my shoulder. 

“Vera, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet,” I say, ushering him forward with a hand on his back. “This is Simon Snow, who I’ve probably mentioned to you before. He’s my, um…” I stand with my mouth agape, the word ‘roommate’ completely gone from my vocabulary, because an hour ago, Simon told me we were friends. 

“Your roommate at school, if I remember correctly,” she supplies for me, reaching out to shake Simon’s hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Snow.” 

“Just Simon is fine,” I tell her, “He’s not one for formalities.” He shoots me an accusatory glance that I know says, _You_ don’t call me Simon. 

“Glad to, um, yeah. Well, thanks for having me,” Simon splutters as he shakes her hand, earning an amused smile. Her eyes flicker up to meet mine for a moment, and the look she gives me is startling; she says nothing aloud, but still somehow communicates to me that she knows about my feelings for him. _And if she knows, surely my parents will guess as well._

“Let’s get you two into the car before you freeze out here,” Vera suggests, taking Simon’s elbow and steering him down the platform in the direction of the car park. “So tell me, Simon, where are you from?” 

I walk along behind them, not really listening to their chatter. Instead, I watch as Simon – ever the gentleman – offers Vera his arm, and helps her navigate across the icy pavement. I’ve never asked, but I figure she must be in her 60s; a fall could prove quite a serious injury for her, so I’m glad that Snow is watching over her. Snippets of their discussion make their way to me: that Snow has no siblings or relatives he’s aware of; that he isn’t gifted academically, but participates in athletics to the best of his ability. Vera points out her vehicle to him, a little grey sedan I helped her decide on a few years ago after doing research on safety ratings and petrol consumption rates. 

Simon instinctively takes his place in the back seat, and to the surprise of us all (myself included), I leave the front passenger seat empty and slide in next to him. 

“Baz, I’ll be fine back here on my own,” he assures me, his brows drawn together in uncertainty. We’ve never been in a car together, I think he’s realizing. It feels almost too domestic for comfort. 

“No, no,” I insist, “if I sit up front, Vera will just harp on me about not getting enough protein in my breakfast or something to that effect.” She shoots me a withering glare in the rearview mirror as she adjusts it, but I swear she gives me a wink just before she turns her attention to the road. 

As we head towards the house, I notice that Simon has begun to squirm once again. He does this any time he’s in an awkward situation, yet has no ability to recognize when he’s doing it (though it’s an obvious sign of discomfort to anyone who sees him). 

_**“Take a chill pill,”**_ I speak clearly but quietly, concealing my wand in the sleeve of my coat so Vera won’t see it. Snow inhales deeply, taking in a breathful of magic-dense air, and within seconds, his pulse slows to a more normal rate, and the tension in his body dissipates. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles gratefully. I wouldn’t dare cast a spell over any other mage without first asking permission, but Simon and I have never had qualms about that when it comes to each other. Granted, we tend to rely on hexes and mild curses in those situations; this was purely out of my want for his wellbeing. That, and his mouth breathing was approaching the volume of a commercial jet engine. 

“Will you be staying the entire holiday, Simon?” Vera asks a few minutes later. She’s been choosing her questions carefully, feeling out our relationship in a way too subtle for Snow to easily recognize. “Surely you’ll spend Christmas with the Grimms?” 

“Oh, um, I don’t know about that,” Simon says hesitantly. “Baz and I have a project to work on, and then I’ll probably head back to school. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” 

“And be there all by yourself?” Vera questions, her voice heavy with disapproval. “I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Grimm wouldn’t hear of it. They’ve arranged for a smaller gathering this year, without extended family, so there will be plenty of space at the table to accommodate a guest. Basil will arrange it with them as soon as he can.” Though Vera tends to be more soft-spoken around my parents, she doesn’t hold back with me; I’ve just been told what to do, and I’ll be damned if I don’t follow through with it. 

“And speaking of Mr. Grimm,” she continues, “Your father will be wanting to speak with you once you’ve settled in, Basil. He mentioned this morning that there’s some important business he wants to discuss with you before you return to school.” Vera meets my gaze in the mirror again, and this time, her eyes are quite serious. I swallow hard as I try to imagine what _business_ my father might have in mind. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

I’ve made it as far as the rug in the Grimms’ foyer, and I’m already unsure about how to act in this house. I knew the place would be big, but Baz never clarified that his parents’ residence was just one princess shy of a fucking _castle_. All of the furniture looks expensive, and I can’t tell if the railing of the staircase is just decorative, or if I’m actually allowed to touch it. And I certainly can’t ask Baz any of the thousand questions I have taking up space in my head, because his stepmother is six feet from me, and wants to know how the train ride went. 

“Simon and I spent most of the trip discussing our project,” Baz lies smoothly, “So it felt shorter than usual.” 

Daphne Grimm is doing her absolute best to control her curiosity about my presence. Baz has explained the absolute minimum necessary for me to be here – “Simon’s an orphan, we have a school project” – but other than that, he’s left his stepmother in the dark. She knows very well who I am, as do Baz’s younger siblings, because all five of them have stared at me with wide eyes since the moment I stepped through the door. 

“Simon, are you hungry?” Mrs. Grimm asks with a polite smile. Baz snorts, earning himself a murderous glance and a sharp “Basil!” from his stepmother. 

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Baz apologizes, “but I just couldn’t help it. I’ve never known Simon not to be hungry.” 

“He’s right,” I say with a lop-sided smile and a shrug. “Cook Pritchard has said more than once that she’s considered purchasing another fridge just for me.” Mrs. Grimm’s expression softens, and it seems that for the time being, I’ve saved Baz from a lecture about being respectful towards houseguests. 

“If it’s not too much trouble, Mother,” Baz asks, “could Simon and I just grab a few snacks from the kitchen, and we’ll work on our project upstairs until dinner?” 

“That’s fine,” his stepmother nods. “I’ll send one of the girls up to let you know when dinner is ready.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Grimm,” I express gratefully, and the dark-haired woman returns my thanks with a genuine smile. I don’t know what Baz has said about me to his parents in the past, and I can only guess what sorts of opinions his father has of me, but I hope that if nothing else, Baz’s siblings and stepmother will see me as more than just the Mage’s Heir by the time I leave Pitch Manor. I’d like to think there’s more to me than a title and an infamous legacy to fulfil at some yet-to-be-determined date. 

* * * * * 

The evening passes uneventfully, and before we know it, it’s nearing eleven o’clock. Baz and I have taken a cursory glance at the family library, had dinner, and taken a tour of the house, which Baz’s eldest sister, 7-year-old Mordelia, insisted upon guiding. I’ve made it as far as closing the door to the guest bedroom, and already I know that I won’t be sleeping here. Something is rattling around beneath the bed, and another something sounds as though it’s shifting things around within the wardrobe. 

As I have a strict no-ghosts policy when it comes to the rooms I sleep in, I decide to wander back to Baz’s room and ask if there’s a bathtub that might make for a suitable bed for the night. He opens the door almost as soon as I knock, and I’m pleased to see that he’s got more colour in his face than he has in the last week or so. Clearly, he snuck down to the kitchen for a quick snack (a blood-filled juice box, maybe?) after showing me to the guest bedroom. 

“You know, I really thought you’d last longer than three minutes in there,” Baz says with a smirk. “Did the wraiths make you nervous, Snow?” 

“I’m sleeping on your floor,” I inform him as I step past him into the room. “Have you got an extra blanket?” Baz shuts the door quietly and makes no protest over having a guest in his room for the night. Not sure why he would; we’ve spent most our nights sleeping an arm's length from each other for the past 7 years. 

“Just take the bed, I’m not going to sleep anyways,” he tells me. I turn on my heel and find myself face to face with Baz, who doesn’t appear interested in arguing with me now, or ever. 

“You’ve slept an hour today,” I say, glaring at him indignantly. “Baz, you need to sleep. You’ll be miserable again tomorrow if you don’t.” 

“Are you implying I was miserable today?” he asks, furrowing his brow in slight annoyance. “That’s not very kind of you, Snow.” 

“Don’t fuck with me, Baz,” I counter, setting my hands on my hips. “If we’re going to make any headway on the library search tomorrow, you and I are going to both need a good night’s sleep.” 

“Well that’s not happening,” he shrugs nonchalantly, “So tough luck.” 

_“Baz.”_ I grit my teeth. 

_“Snow.”_ He leers down at me, using the three inches he’s got on me to his advantage. I have to change my tactics, because clearly this isn’t working. 

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” I say, earning a low growl from my roommate; it tells me I’ve hit the nail right on the head. “That nightmare terrified you, and you don’t want to have another.” 

“I’m not a huge fan of nightmares, no,” Baz sneers, “So maybe you should just leave me to decide when I’ll sleep from now on.” 

“I’ll be right here,” I argue, “And I know the spell Penny used to wake you up last time. It’ll be completely fine, Baz.” 

“We must have different definitions of the word ‘fine’, Snow,” he retorts, “Because I’d much rather lose a few nights of sleep than go through that again. You didn’t have to endure any of the unpleasant bits, so I don’t think you get an opinion in the matter.” This assertion of his brings my blood to a boil. What the hell does he know about what I went through that night. 

“Oh, you think you’re the only one that dream was difficult for, Baz?” I ask, raising my voice louder than I should. “You think it was _easy_ for me to watch you cry for help, but not have any fucking idea how to help you? Fuck you.” 

“I thought you were dead!” Baz shouts in my face, stepping so close I have to back away to maintain the space between us. “I felt you get ripped from my arms, and had no way of knowing whether I’d ever see you alive again, Simon, so don’t you dare tell me I’m wrong to stay awake!” It isn’t until now that I notice tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Baz’s eyes are such a clear, frigid grey that I feel as though I’ve been plunged into freezing water just by maintaining eye contact with him. He closes his eyes in an attempt to quell the rivers of icy tears he’s crying, in that moment, something clicks in my brain: the thing I want most in the world is to comfort Baz, and the only way for me to do that is to take his face in my hands, pull him close, and kiss the warmth back into him. 

So that’s exactly what I do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did this make any sense? It's 03:30 and I'm out of my mind at this point. As always, I'll end up rereading and editing for clarity tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz spend the first night of winter holidays together at Pitch Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did what I always end up doing which is writing a few chapters without giving a shit about creating a plot, and then realizing my story should actually go somewhere. My apologies if this isn't cohesive with the rest of the story so far - bear with me!
> 
> WHAT IS EDITING? WHY WOULD I EDIT BEFORE POSTING?

**Baz**

Simon Snow is kissing me, and this time, it isn’t a dream. 

One moment I’m in his face, shouting, and the next, Snow’s warm mouth is pressed against mine for reasons I’m not about to stop and ask him. He’s an idiot, so really, it could be anything. Maybe he wants me to stop crying, and he doesn’t trust that he’ll find the right words. Maybe he’s been possessed by one of the many supernatural entities that lurk around the manor; I’ve never heard of a ghost that’s partial to snogging, but perhaps my father wasn’t keen on having that discussion with me. (The explanation I like best is that Snow has wanted this for a while now, and finally plucked up the courage to take what he wants; it’s unlikely, but a boy can dream.) 

The reality of kissing Simon is so much better than any of my dreams. He holds my face gently in his hands, and his thumbs sweep across my cheeks to wipe away the wet trails left by my tears. I hate crying, and I hate that I did it in front of him, but the tenderness with which he comforts me lessens the sense of self-loathing creeping over me. 

I’ve never kissed anyone, mostly because I’ve always loved Simon (the fangs aren’t ideal, either). The idea of studying the way it’s done in films or on TV has always made me feel awkward, so at first, I have no idea what to do with my hands. They hang at my sides until Simon begins nudging me back towards my bed, at which point I have to hold onto him so I won’t fall. 

Snow doesn’t pull away when, in a moment of enthusiasm, my teeth clash with his. He doesn’t stop when I stab him in the eye with my nose, or when I use just a bit too much tongue, or even when I royally embarrass myself by groaning in absolute satisfaction when he sucks at my lower lip. In fact, each of these things has him smiling against my mouth, which in turn makes me smile, and melt against him a little more. If he isn’t careful, Simon might end up with a puddle of stupidly happy vampire on the floor in front of him. It takes all my strength to not mumble, “I love you,” every time I pull back to catch my breath. 

I think Simon can sense the nervousness fluttering in my belly at the idea of pushing our limits. This entire experience is overwhelming, to say the least. It changes _everything._ So instead, he gives up the reigns and lets me decide how fast or slow we take things. Eventually, we end up lazing together on my bed, the sheets and duvet still tucked in from when I made it this morning. We lie on our sides facing each other, close enough to kiss whenever the feeling strikes, and our hands intertwined between us. If I’d been asked to describe what the perfect first kiss would be like, I’d refer to the scene before me, because that’s how I feel about it: _perfect_. 

As the minutes pass, my eyelids start to grow heavy. Simon doesn’t cover his yawns because of course he doesn’t, and each time one comes over him, he resembles that roaring lion from the MGM credits that play before many of the popular American films I’ve seen. I tell him as much, but he’s either never seen it, or is too tired to process what I’m saying. 

I was planning to set up the sofa for Simon, and I don’t want to assume based on recent events, but I wouldn’t mind falling asleep just like this. Well, maybe we could shift a little closer together, and I could throw an arm over Snow’s middle so I could hold him tightly. 

“What is this?” I whisper to Simon once his eyes have been closed for a minute or so. I don’t know for certain that he’s still awake, but he hasn’t started to snore yet, so there’s a chance he’ll answer me. He draws in a long breath before answering, and his eyes remain shut. 

“I reckon it’s what we should’ve been doing for a while now,” he murmurs, stifling a yawn. “S’better than arguing, that’s for sure.” 

“Pretty sure if I’d tried to kiss you two weeks ago, you would’ve decked me,” I say with a chuckle. “Circumstances have changed a bit.” 

“Nothing has changed,” Snow mumbles. “Just didn’t know the feeling was mutual until now, I s’pose.” When I try to speak, Simon presses his hand over my mouth, muffling my words. I pretend to nip at the palm of his hand, but it seems Snow’s playful mood has passed. 

“Basil,” he says, opening one eye slightly; he _never_ calls me that. “It’s late, and you’ve only slept an hour in the last 72. C’mere, and shut up.” 

“But—” I protest, to no avail. 

“Tell me how much you adore me in the morning,” he says, kissing the tip of my nose. I roll my eyes, but am actually quite grateful for the chance to rest. 

Though I still feel anxious about falling asleep, I feel much better knowing that Snow will be right here beside me if anything goes awry. Best-case scenario, we get to snog when we’re asleep as well as when we’re awake; worst-case scenario, Simon has to spell me out of a terrifying nightmare. I try not to think about that second option, and instead relax into Snow’s embrace, tangle one of my legs between his, and rest my chin atop his soft, bronze curls. His breath is warm against my neck, his body warm against mine; it’s the first time I’ve felt anything but cold in ages. 

To say that I’m living a charmed life – at least in this moment – would be an understatement. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

It’s not news to anyone that I’m a morning person. I am the early bird, and at Watford, the proverbial worm comes in the form of hot breakfast, and lots of it. Being at Pitch Manor seems to make no difference to my sleep schedule, because the clock on the bedside table nearest me hasn’t even reached 6:00 when I open my eyes. Baz is out cold, so I’m able to shift myself to sit with my back against the headboard without jostling him awake. 

I've only been awake a few minutes when shit goes south. I'm resting my eyes and running my fingers through my sleepy roommate's soft hair when the door to his bedroom opens, and in walks his father. His brows knit together in confusion at the sight of Baz curled up against me. 

“Oh, fuck,” is what comes out of my mouth, but Malcolm doesn’t seem to hear me. His forehead is creased, and the corners of his mouth are turned down, but I don’t read any anger in his expression as he regards his sleeping son. He seems more sad than anything else; it’s a look that says, _I barely known my own child._ Malcolm stands there a moment longer before his eyes flicker up to meet mine, and without a word, he steps back into the hall and pulls the door shut quietly. 

_Merlin and Morgana, what do I do?_ Thankfully, I’m dressed, so when my brain spits out, _Explain yourself,_ I don’t have to scramble around for my clothes. I’m out in the corridor before Malcolm has even made it to the stairs. 

“Sir,” I say, raising my voice just loud enough for him to hear me. 

“Downstairs, Mr. Snow,” he says, glancing back at me over his shoulder at me to ensure I’m following. _Great._ It’s at this moment I regret not waking Baz; now, I won’t even have a chance to say goodbye before his father murders me. 

Taking a deep breath, I trail behind Malcolm down the stairs, and through the eerily quiet manor. At the care homes I’ve lived in, and even at the Bunce’s, the littluns are always up at the crack of dawn, already full of energy for the day. I remind myself that these are Baz’s siblings; perhaps they follow his example of sleeping in on weekends. 

I gather that Malcolm Grimm is an early riser as well, as he’s already dressed for the day in exactly what I expected of the family’s patriarch: slim-tailored trousers, a white collared shirt, and a waistcoat, with a burgundy cravat and a pocket watch to complete the look. I’ll be shocked if his study doesn’t smell of expensive cigars, or if there’s no crystal decanter on the desk. 

Malcolm leads me down a corridor I recognize as one that leads to the library, and we stop outside one of the doors Mordelia neglected to label on our tour yesterday. He slips a smooth, ebony wand from his pocket, unlocks the door with a quick swish, and holds it open for me. When I hesitate to enter, he raises an eyebrow curiously, an expression I’ve always associated with Baz; this is clearly where he learned it. 

“No need to be concerned, Mr. Snow, we’re just having a conversation,” he assures me, his voice calm and collected. I don’t trust that he’s telling the truth, but when I think about the consequences he would face for killing the Mage’s Heir in his own home, I decide to chance it, and I step into Malcolm Grimm's study. 

Malcolm closes the door behind us before crossing the room, and taking his place behind an enormous antique desk. Like everything else in Pitch Manor, it’s a piece of art, with intricate designs carved into the mahogany. Thankfully, there are no gargoyles in the design; the furniture in Baz’s room features far too many likenesses of the creature for my taste. Malcolm extends a hand towards one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the desk, inviting me to take a seat as well. When I sink into the leather seat cushion, the scent is reminiscent of the Mage’s study, which was previously occupied by Malcolm’s wife, headmistress Natasha Pitch. 

“So, Mr. Snow,” he begins, folding his hands on the desk before him. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” His voice is meek in comparison to Baz’s often cutting tone, but I feel my mouth dry up all the same. 

“It’s, ah, kind of a difficult thing to explain, sir,” I admit, swallowing hard. “But it’s not what you might think.” _What I’ve maybe given you good reason to think._

“I’m sure you can imagine my surprise when Basil arrived home for the holidays with you in tow,” he continues. “I was under the impression that you weren’t on the best of terms. And even if that isn’t the case, I’d have thought that the nature of our family’s relationship with your _guardian_ would have been a significant enough deterrent on its own. And yet, here you are.” I don’t know how to interpret his impassive expression, and I have no point of reference for what anger or concern look like on him. He’s similar to Baz in many ways, but seems better at controlling his emotions. Yet another reason I should have woken Baz up instead of running after Malcolm like an idiot. 

“I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important, sir,” I tell him, deciding that telling the truth is probably the only option that doesn’t result in physical injury at this point. “You see, Baz and I are in a bit of a bind, and we were hoping to find some answers in your library.” 

“Ah, yes,” he nods. “My son told his stepmother you have a _project_ to work on. I’m sure you can imagine why I find that to be an unlikely story, especially now.” 

“Well, it’s um. Not exactly a _school_ project,” I explain hesitantly, “And the library at Watford is…well, you know…” 

“Not one of the Mage’s finest reforms,” Malcolm supplies with a slight grimace of disgust. “‘Abysmal’ is the word Basil often uses to describe it.” 

“Yeah, it’s shit,” I agree bluntly. “Mostly just a bunch of kids’ books. Which, you know, I get that nursery rhymes are important for mages, but it wasn’t…what we needed.” 

“And what is it you think you _need_ from our library?” Malcolm inquires, narrowing his eyes. “You must be aware that the Mage has been raiding the homes of important magickal families and removing anything he deems to be contraband. Quite a coincidence that you would show up here in the midst of these invasions of privacy.” 

“My friend Penelope told me about the raids other day, after her house was searched. I didn’t know before then, sir, I swear.” 

“I find that hard to believe as well, Mr. Snow,” Malcolm says with a frown. “The Mage’s Men are much less likely to have an opportunity to really poke around than someone such as yourself. I’m not about to be so bold as to say the Mage sent you himself, but…” He won’t be so bold as to say it outright, but he’s certainly implying that I’ve been sent here as a spy. 

“H-he doesn’t even—he has no idea that I’m here,” I stammer. “He thinks I went home with my girlfriend like I usually do for the holiday. But we…broke up, and I didn't tell him I wasn't spending Christmas with the Wellbeloves. Really, sir,” I insist, “He doesn’t know.” 

“The Mage wouldn’t let you out of his sight for a second,” Malcolm says with a snort. “I don’t appreciate being lied to, Mr. Snow.” 

“I’m telling the truth,” I snap at him defensively. I’m having a hard time holding my anger back, even though this is exactly what I expected of him. “Baz brought me here because we – because it’s not possible to ask anyone else for help. I’d be sent away, and Baz...” I don’t even want to think about what the consequence would be for Baz. 

“Send you away?” Malcolm repeats, frowning. “You’re telling me the Mage would send you away for being…for sleeping with a boy?” 

“ _What?_ Where did you get…? Baz and I didn't—that’s not… _no_ ,” I splutter, wanting desperately to just explain everything clearly for once. “The Mage would lose his shit if he found out about Baz and I, because he’s a _Pitch_ , and a vampire.” I spit out Baz's surname like a swear word (just out of habit, really), but Malcolm Grimm takes even greater offence to my other comment. 

“How _dare_ you accuse my son of such a thing?” Malcolm snarls, standing up from behind his desk. He snatches his wand from his pocket and points it directly at my face, but I’m too stunned by his sudden outburst to duck or drop to the floor. I knew he wasn’t huge on discussing the whole ‘my son drinks blood’ thing, but… 

A thunderous crack sounds behind me, and I whip around to find the source of the noise. To my great surprise, a gaping hole in the wall now exists in place of the door to Malcolm’s study. Shards of splintered wood hang from the door’s hinges, which are somehow still bolted to the wall. And in the middle of it all stands Baz – still in his pyjamas, his hair mussed from sleeping, and with his wand in hand. 

“Simon Snow, you absolute _numpty_. This is _exactly_ why I said I didn’t want to fall asleep,” he growls accusingly. “For snakes’ sake, I leave you unsupervised for, what – FIVE HOURS – and you’ve already managed to make a mess of things? You are un- _fucking_ -believable, Snow.” Baz stomps across the room, and when he reaches me, he slaps a hand over my shoulder and shoves me back down into the armchair I was sitting in previously. The force nearly knocks the wind out of me. 

“Hey!” I shoot him a dark look and rub at my shoulder, which will probably ache for a good little while. He could have pushed me much harder, I’m sure, so I'm grateful that Baz is aware of his super vampire strength. 

Baz takes a seat in the chair beside me and crosses his legs, smoothing a hand over his thigh. He’s put on a pair of silky pyjama trousers (probably so as not to walk around the house in his underwear), and they look lovely on him. 

“Those are nice,” I comment, raising my eyebrows as I gesture to the shiny fabric. I expect a withering glare, but instead, I get just the slightest frown. Baz looks less tired than he did last night, and the blood he drank has improved his colouring significantly. From the looks of it, I think he’s not so much angry with me for arguing with his father as he is grouchy about having to wake up early to save my skin. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. After watching me for another moment, his expression shifts back to seriousness, and he looks up at his father, who is still standing behind his desk with his wand in hand. He’s staring straight past us at the hole that once was his door, his mouth agape. 

“Good morning, Father,” Baz says, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he yawns. “Shall I ring down for some tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Randomly decided I wanted Malcolm Grimm to be in this chapter for reasons. I rewrote this probably 85 times. And I promise, more cute SnowBaz to come in the future.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz says something he regrets.

**Baz**

On the list of things I didn’t expect to be doing this early in the morning, “tell my father about the weird dreams my roommate and I are having, where we either get eaten by monsters _or_ we shag” is at the very top. But here we are in his study, trying to explain our situation in as few details as possible while still getting to the root of the issue. The muscles in my father’s neck are so tense, they look as though they might snap. I think that if I could read minds, I’d probably hear him wishing his tea had been spiked with arsenic so he could get the hell out of this conversation. 

My mind wanders over these sorts of thoughts instead of being mentally present, because they make me want to jump off a bridge less than watching Malcolm Grimm’s facial expressions does. 

“So you see, sir,” Simon is telling my father when I tune back into the discussion, “We thought there might be something in your library about dream magic that could help us.” My father’s dark eyes flit between Simon and I, as if he’s waiting for one of us to yell, “Only joking!” He sincerely hopes we’re taking the piss, but deep down, he knows this is really happening. 

“Right,” he says, nodding slowly. He reaches down to open the bottom drawer of his desk, and from it retrieves a bottle of Scotch, a generous splash of which he adds to the cup of tea he’s poured himself. I’ve never known my father to be a morning drinker, but considering the situation, I’m not going to hold it against him. 

“I’m going to be frank here, Mr. Snow,” Malcolm says, wincing as he takes a sip of his drink. “I’ve never heard of a spell that might connect one person’s dreams to another. If such a thing exists, it would certainly be classified as advanced magic.” 

“I don’t think it will come as a surprise for me to tell you that I’m not thrilled by your _connection_ with my son,” my father continues, avoiding the word ‘relationship’ at all costs. The only thing he might dislike even more than me being gay is the thought of me being gay with the Mage’s Heir. “As such, it will be a priority for me to help find a way to reverse this connection.” Simon glances over at me, his brows drawn together; he’s thinking so hard, I can almost smell it. 

“He’ll call his contacts with the Coven to inquire about dream magic, but it’s not out of the goodness of his heart,” I translate for him. “He thinks there’s something going on between us, and he wants that to stop as well.” 

“Basil, _please,_ ” my father scoffs. “I came to wake you up, and found you in bed with the Mage’s Heir. I don’t _’think’_ there’s something going on between you and Mr. Snow. I _know_ there is.” 

“Well, then, you thought wrong,” I snort, rolling my eyes. “Snow came crying to me last night because he’s afraid of the wraith in the guest room, and I was kind enough not to make him sleep on the thousand-year-old sofa.” My eyes shift over to meet Simon’s, and I give him a cool, emotionless glare. “Trust me when I say, Father, that there’s _nothing_ going on between Simon and I. He’s straight, he’s practically a Normal, and he can barely control his magic well enough to cast a simple spell – even Wellbelove was embarrassed by his incompetence as a mage. As if I’d stoop that low; I’m gay, not desperate.” 

I lace my words with all the malice and disgust I have in me, and hope that Simon isn’t fooled. Surely he must know how I feel – how I really feel – about him. 

“So there you have it,” Snow tells my father, his voice wavering slightly. “If you’d let me explain myself earlier, I could have told you the same thing, Mr. Grimm.” The lump in his throat bobs ridiculously as he swallows, but he manages not to let any tears slip, even though I can see the wetness in his eyes threatening to spill over. My father notices none of this, however, because he’s too focused on me. With narrowed eyes, he searches my expression for any hint of a lie; I make sure he finds none. 

“I’ll meet you up in the library later, Baz. I need to shower,” Simon says stiffly as he rises from his chair. I ignore the crushing reality of my (lied) verbal betrayal, which Simon seems to have accepted as my true feelings. My beautiful, hard-headed, kissable, idiot roommate storms out of the study, wiping his nose on the back of his arm as he goes (disgusting, and all my fault). I would go after him, but it would ruin everything I’ve just said to my father. So I stay in my seat and try my best to keep breathing, even though my heart is tearing itself apart within me. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

_God, how could I be such an idiot? As if I thought Baz might actually feel something for me. As if I thought last night was anything other than a chance for him to blow off some steam. It was purely physical for him, apparently, and I wish I’d known that before I went and made a fool of myself in front of Malcolm Grimm._

If it wasn’t absolutely necessary for us to break this spell, I’d have my bags packed and I’d fucking walk all the way to the main road if I had to, slush and mud be damned. I don’t know how it’ll even be possible for me to look at Baz after this. He can barely stand to be in the same room as me, apparently. 

I head back to the guest room, where I left my bag last night, so I can get dressed for the day. It feels awkward to walk around someone else’s house, _period_ , let alone in pyjamas that don’t belong to me. I close and lock the door behind me, just in case, and turn the lights on. Hopefully, wraiths don’t like the light… 

My bag is where I left it on the floor, but my attention is drawn instead to a few stacks of clothes set out on the end of the bed. I take a closer look and find a note, which – to my surprise – is signed by Baz’s stepmother. 

_Simon,_

_Basil mentioned that you didn’t have time to pack much besides your school uniform before leaving Watford, and asked that some clothes be purchased for you. If there’s anything you don’t like or that doesn’t fit, I can have it exchanged for something else – just let me know._

_Daphne_

I read the note three or four times before it sinks in. _Baz_ asked his stepmother to buy me clothes. He told her I didn’t have time to pack, not that I don’t own any clothes because I’m poor. By looking at the items laid out before me, I can tell that he gave her some ideas in terms of style, because while all of them seem to be good quality and name brand, they’re things I would actually want to wear, not whatever posh crap I’ve always assumed Baz would wear in his own home. 

My first real thought is that I can’t accept this. It’s too much. And Baz hates me, apparently. But this is too thoughtful to have been done by someone who hates me, isn’t it? I sift through the piles and inspect a few of the shirts, trying to decide which I should wear today, because really, I can’t wear my school uniform every day for the next week and a half. I didn’t think about that when I packed at Watford. I left my jeans with the ripped knees (authentically ripped, not done for style) and the few ratty t-shirts I had at the school, knowing that it would be idiotic to bring such raggedy clothes to Baz’s family home, but not considering that it would look just as strange to wear my school uniform outside of the school environment. 

Eventually, I decide on a soft grey t-shirt and slim-cut jeans, both of which fit perfectly. Mrs. Grimm has also purchased some socks with Christmas patterns (kind of fun, I guess), and has discreetly tucked some new underwear beneath the stack of trousers. I don’t know how Baz knew what sizes to tell his stepmother, and I _especially_ don’t know how he knew what style of underwear I prefer. 

As I tug on a pair of socks with evergreen wreath designs on them, I hear a knock at the door. If it’s Baz, I might deck him. But I open the door to find his sister Mordelia waiting for me, still in her little pink nightdress and bunny slippers. 

“Hi, Simon,” she smiles up at me. “Breakfast is ready if you want some.” When she offers me her hand, I take it, and close the bedroom door behind me. She chatters about her plans for the day (including playing in the snow, and decorating a gingerbread house) as we walk to the dining room, and she insists that I sit beside her at the table. Daphne and the other children are already seated, and I can tell by the way her eyes light up that Daphne is pleased to see me wearing the clothes she picked out. 

Baz and his father join us just after the Grimm’s kitchen staff brings out breakfast, and to my private delight, Baz seems disconcerted to find me seated beside Mordelia. He is forced to take a seat across the table between his father and stepmother, which doesn’t stop him from staring at me, but does limit our ability to talk about anything of substance. Daphne seems to notice the tension between us, so she tries to start a conversation, but finds that neither Baz nor I are particularly talkative this morning. 

The children don’t stare at me as I eat the way they did during dinner last night, which I appreciate. I realize my table manners are atrocious compared to theirs, which I attribute to being raised in care; there was never any reason to act as though we were dining with the Queen or something. Mordelia does take a moment to show me how to lay my napkin across my lap, because it’s apparently the polite thing to do, but otherwise, we enjoy breakfast in peace. 

Malcolm addresses me only once, and only to tell me that he will join Baz and I in the library later in the day, once he’s had a chance to phone some of his Coven contacts. This is fine by me, because I have no interest in spending time with him, but also creates for the awkward situation of Baz and I being alone together. I almost think to invite Mordelia to come sit in the room and draw, just to have someone else in the room, but I think Baz would veto it if I were to suggest it. 

I excuse myself once I’ve finished eating (after thanking Daphne for the meal, of course) and hurry back upstairs to brush my hair and teeth before making my way to the library. There’s no telling how long Baz will take to get ready for the day, but I kind of hope he doesn’t join me for a while. After our discussion with his father, I feel almost sick to my stomach at the idea of being alone with him. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Thank Crowley I asked Daphne to pick up clothes for Simon, because the jeans he’s wearing today look better than anything else I’ve ever seen him wear. He chose a plain grey t-shirt (because of course he did) that is appropriately snug around his broad shoulders, but that isn’t so tight as to make him uncomfortable. Snow has always seemed a bit self-conscious about his body (Merlin knows why, he’s fucking perfect), but these clothes seem as though they were made for him. 

I curse myself every moment of breakfast for saying what I did in the study. Even though I did it to protect Snow from my father, I regret having hurt him. He barely speaks a word the entire meal, other than to answer Mordelia’s frequent queries about what school is like. Thankfully, Daphne doesn’t ask my father or I about the events of the morning, other than to inquire as to why the door to the study has been reduced to a pile of splinters in the hall. 

I fuss over my outfit and my hair for far too long, especially when I know that Simon is alone in the library. It leaves him in the perfect position for my father to confront him, or for Daphne to start asking all about his life, and I don’t want either of those situations to occur. I decide to dress casually, as inspired by Snow’s outfit. Because we’ll be flipping through books and hauling them back and forth, I decide to tie my hair back into a little bun, which is something I never done at school. I’m curious what Snow will think of it, if anything at all. He might decide to ignore me for the rest of his time in Hampshire; my behaviour this morning would certainly justify it. 

Snow is pretending to read a book on Magickal illnesses when I finally make it into the library, and I know he’s pretending because the book is upside down. I decide now isn’t the time to be a jerk and point this out to him. 

“Are you alright if I close this?” I ask, my hand already on the door handle. He shrugs and mumbles something I can’t quite hear, but doesn’t protest when I push the heavy door closed. He does look up when he hears the lock click, and he raises an eyebrow when I pull my wand from my pocket and start casting spells to sound-proof the room. 

“Paranoid or something?” he asks. “Wouldn’t want your father to hear you saying what an enormous idiot I am. He might get the wrong idea.” 

“I’m fucking sorry,” I snap, walking brusquely towards him. “I thought he might send you back to school if he thought something was going on between us.” He’s frowning; I want to kiss the crease in his forehead until he doesn’t look so angry anymore. 

“You could have just said we aren’t together,” he retorts, “But I guess calling out all my insecurities works just as well.” He’s sitting on the leather sofa, and is doing his best not to look at me. It becomes more of a challenge to ignore me when I move to kneel on either side of his thighs so that I’m straddling his lap. 

“I didn’t mean any of it,” I assure him, taking his face in my hands. “Well, I do think you’re an idiot sometimes, but it’s an endearing quality of yours.” Simon folds his arms across his chest so he won’t be tempted to touch me; he’s holding onto his anger as long as he can, it seems, and I can’t say I blame him. What I said about him was truly mean. 

“Wow, what a sincere apology,” he deadpans, meeting my eyes. “Do you think if I kill you, it’ll break the dream spell? That might be the best option at this point.” I know he isn’t serious, that this isn’t truly a threat, but his tone makes my heart break. I’ve hurt him in a way I wasn’t able to until recently. He finally put his trust in me, and I shattered it in a span of 30 seconds. 

“Simon, I love you, and I’m so sorry,” I express, leaning forward to press my forehead to his. “I’m so, so sorry.” Simon’s breath catches in his throat, and I feel my heart stop (or it would, if it could) as I realize what I’ve said. 

The most important sentiment I could possibly express – to anyone, ever – slips from my mouth without any fanfare, because it’s just a fact I’ve always known: I love Simon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it too soon for this to be said? Who knows. (Well, someone probably knows, but it isn't me.)
> 
> We're getting to the point that we might actually figure out what the fuck is going on soon. Wouldn't that be cool?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz sort out some problems with the help of a family member, and sometimes their mouths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said last time that we might actually figure something out here, but I got caught up in gratuitous SnowBaz kisses. Next time for sure.

**Simon**

Being angry was easy enough when Baz was standing across the room from me. It was easy when his body was far, far away, where I could pretend his physical presence had no effect on me. When he crawls into my lap, I should push him away – tell him that he can’t just kiss this better – but I don’t. Because as it turns out, Basilton Pitch probably _can_ kiss it better. 

When his hands cup my cheeks, much of the sting of his earlier words is soothed. Baz’s touch is a better painkiller than any Normal medicine or magickal remedy, it seems. I wonder briefly if he could be using magic to calm me, but that notion is pushed away by the echoing _I love you_ bouncing around in my head. 

“Simon, I love you, and I’m so sorry,” Baz murmurs softly, resting his cool forehead against mine. “I’m so, so sorry.” Sarcasm comes more naturally than sincerity to Baz, but I know this apology is genuine – there’s remorse in his stormy eyes, and in the pout of his lips as he frowns. 

Instead of the rush of emotion an admission of love should create in a person, I just feel normal, as though Baz loving me is the most normal thing in the world – because it _is_. It’s as mundane as the _I love you_ that Penny’s mother repeats as Penny’s father presses a kiss to her temple on his way out the door every morning. ‘I love you’ rolls off Baz’s tongue like it’s something he’s told me a million times before, and maybe he has, in his own way; I just haven’t been paying close enough attention until now. 

When Baz realizes he’s voiced it aloud, his body stiffens. His instinct is to run, to pretend he’s never said anything at all, but I refuse to let that happen. He’s been hiding his feelings behind sarcasm and attempted loathing all these years, and I’ve been actively avoiding the acknowledgement of my own feelings by putting ‘loving my vampire roommate’ on the list of things I’m not allowed to think about, right below ‘I sometimes find fit blokes attractive’. 

“You don’t get to walk away this time, Baz,” I whisper, tucking my nose alongside his. “You can’t just tell me something like that and expect me to pretend it never happened.” 

“Simon…” His voice cracks as he says my name. My hands come up around his waist, and I pull him a bit closer, because I’ll be damned if he thinks he gets to take his hands off me now. 

“How long?” I ask, my vision blurring in and out of focus as I look into his eyes. Baz’s long, dark lashes tickle my eyelids when he blinks. I wonder for a moment whether he wears mascara or not (but that’s not important). 

“Forever, I think,” Baz says quietly after a long pause. “Almost as long as I’ve known you. I didn’t call it ‘love’ at first; mostly, I just wanted to murder you for making me feel like I was going to burst into flames every time you came near me. Gave it a name in fifth year, tried to pretend it wasn’t real, and now…” 

“And now…” I repeat, bumping my bottom lip against his as an encouragement to finish his thought. 

“And now I can’t unsay it,” he whispers. His hands, still holding my face, are trembling with fear. This situation is out of his control, and if there’s anything I know about Baz, it’s that he finds comfort in having control over his life. 

“I wouldn’t want you to.” 

“What?” Baz pulls back so he that he can see me better, and his hands come to rest on my shoulders. 

“I don’t want you to unsay it,” I clarify, giving him what I’m sure is the dopiest of grins. “You love me, and I love you, and that’s all that matters.” 

Baz lunges forward with such force I’m afraid he’s about to break my jaw, and our mouths come together in a messy, desperate kiss imbued with a thousand ‘I love you’s. Where last night was more exploratory (I was right to assume it was Baz’s first kiss), this is an assurance that we both want this – whatever _this_ is. 

Because the library is a shared space (I have no doubt that Malcolm or Daphne could unlock the door if they tried), we refrain from getting too handsy – clothes stay on, and hair remains un-mussed. It would be suspicious if we were to excuse ourselves up to Baz’s bedroom, especially since he told his parents what we’d be spending our morning and afternoon doing. 

“We should probably get started on our search before your dad decides to join us,” I suggest eventually. “Someone’s bound to interrupt us if we keep this up.” With a mutual sigh, we reluctantly break apart. Baz extricates himself from my embrace and offers me a hand up from the sofa, which I gladly accept. 

“I’ll have you know that I don’t hate most of these dreams,” he tells me, pecking me once on the lips. “The nightmares I could do without, I suppose, and maybe the residual hickeys. So if we find a spell that takes those bits away, let’s do that, alright?” Baz smiles with his teeth for what feels like the first time in ages, and it’s glorious. 

“Pretty sure that’s not a thing, but I’ll keep an eye out,” I tease, lacing my index finger through one of his belt loops and giving him a playful tug. “So where do you think we should start?” 

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Baz offers encouragingly. “You know the spell.” 

“I dunno,” I hesitate, patting my front pockets in search of my wand. “You know how my spells usually work.” 

“Come on, Snow, what’s the worst that could happen?” Baz insists. I think for a moment he’s about to grab my ass, but instead, he pulls my wand from my back pocket and hands it to me handle-first with a flick of the wrist and a graceful bow. 

The librarian at Watford reminded us a thousand times to be _very_ specific when choosing our search terms, and as soon as I’ve said, _**“Fine-tooth comb – dreams!”**_ I realize why. About forty books fly off the shelves and shoot towards me, barely giving me enough time to cover my face before I’m assaulted by them all. The scene is apparently quite comical, because Baz doubles over with laughter as he watches on. 

“A little help here, Baz?” I growl through gritted teeth. As his laughter subsides, Baz pretends to wipe a tear from his eye. I consider decking him, but decide that might ruin my chances of getting him to kiss me again. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes, grinning wickedly. _**“Neat and tidy!”**_ The mountain of books strewn at my feet rise into the air and stack themselves in three piles – arranged in alphabetical order by author – on the table in the centre of the room. 

“Pretentious,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. Baz leans down and plants a kiss to my temple. He’s on thin fucking ice, that boy. 

“We probably should have talked about search terms first,” he says with a snicker, “because I think just ‘dreams’ was a bit too broad for our purposes.” That’s probably an understatement; looking through all these books could take hours. “Maybe let’s set aside children’s books, and stick to actual spellbooks.” Baz holds up a copy of a picture book that looks to be a bedtime story. 

“Fuck you,” I say, snatching the book from his hand. “You knew something weird would happen.” 

“I did not!” Baz protests indignantly. “I _suspected,_ yes, but to say I _knew_ is a bit of a stretch.” Stepping forward, I reach out and smack Baz on the top of the head with the book. 

“Hey!” he yelps, grabbing at my wrists to neutralize my attack. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Snow?” I squirm away from him, but he holds on. When I manage to yank one hand free, I jab my fingers into his side, getting at the tender area below his ribs. He shrieks in surprise, and releases my other hand. 

“I thought we were supposed to be working?” I challenge him, raising my eyebrows. 

“We _are_ , but someone’s being a little shit,” he retorts. The book fell out of my hand at some point, so Baz looks to the ground in search of it. He looks past my feet and makes a little sound as though he’s found it. My eyes follow and I turn to look as well, because I’m not immune to his tricks just yet. As soon as I’m distracted, Baz is behind me. 

“I’ve got you now, Snow,” he growls playfully, looping his arms around my middle. Apparently he’s feeling extra silly, because he peppers kisses up and down my neck, poking fun at the vampire stereotype. 

Apparently Baz’s soundproofing spells have worn off, because as we continue goofing around, the library door is quietly unlocked, and Daphne steps in, closing the door behind her. Baz is distracted, so even he doesn’t notice her right away, but when he knocks me off balance a bit and twists us around, we see that we aren’t alone. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

I’m not sure my stepmother could look more surprised than she does in this moment. The last thing she probably expected today was to see her oldest son, an actual vampire, pretending to nibble at his boyfriend’s neck during what could probably be described as a tickle fight. (Boyfriend? Fuck. Snow isn’t my boyfriend, is he?) 

“I thought I heard something fall over,” she says by way of explanation. 

“Mother, this isn’t—” I stop myself partway through _“This isn’t what it looks like,”_ because unless she thinks I’m actually trying to drain Snow dry, it’s exactly what it looks like: two love-struck teens faffing about instead of working on our ‘project’. 

My arms are still around Simon, and I notice that he’s set his hands atop mine where they rest against his abdomen, as though he’s protecting me. And maybe he is. I’m a coward when it comes to my parents. What Daphne walks in on essentially affirms exactly what my father accused us of this morning. 

“I’m not going to tell your father, Basil, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Daphne says, breaking the awkward silence. “I know he’s…well, you know how he is.” She tilts her head towards the sofa as an invitation for Simon and I to take a seat. I separate myself from Snow, but as soon as I do, he reaches for one of my hands and clasps it tightly in his own. The glint of determination in his eye says, _You’re not in this alone._ We settle ourselves side by side on the sofa, pressed up against each other for comfort and moral support. I could almost swear that when Daphne glances over and sees us like this, the corner of her mouth turns up ever so slightly. _She said she wouldn’t tell father; could this mean she’s okay with Snow and I?_

There are no comfortable chairs close to the sofa, to Daphne’s great displeasure, so she taps the blood-red ruby hanging at her throat and whispers a spell under her breath. Her favourite armchair lifts up and floats gracefully across the room, setting itself where she points. I see her do magic so infrequently that I occasionally forget she’s a mage, and a powerful one at that. This morning, she fixed the door to Father’s study after I accidently incinerated it without batting an eye. All she had to say to me about it afterwards was, “Try to use the doorknob next time, dear.” 

“Malcolm told me about this morning,” Daphne explains as she lowers herself into the armchair. She crosses one leg over the other and rearranges her skirt before continuing. “I said I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary between you, and that I was quite sure you were just friends.” That has me chuckling; Snow and I have never been _friends._ I don’t even know if he’d say we’re friends now. 

“This is quite new, Mother,” I respond carefully, staring at our clasped hands, which are resting in the dip where Simon’s left leg meets my right. “And trust me, I’m as shocked as you.” It’s true; the fact that Simon reciprocates my feelings at all still has me reeling. 

“I believe you, Basil,” Daphne says, nodding. Her dark hair is pulled back into a perfect bun, and her deep brown eyes regard us both sympathetically. “I trust your judgement. Your father has his own thoughts and motives, you’re well aware of that, and it’s no secret that Simon’s father—” 

“He’s not my father,” Simon snaps out of nowhere. Just as suddenly, his mouth falls open in horror at the tone he’s taken with my stepmother. “Mrs. Grimm, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean – please believe me, I only meant—” And off he goes, spluttering as though he’s drowning. With my free hand, I take the back of his head and pull him to my shoulder to give him a chance to settle. I can’t have him going off in the library and destroying six generations’ worth of spells and magickal lore. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” Daphne begs pardon, leaning forward and patting Simon’s knee gently. My father wouldn’t give a shit if he were to upset Simon, so to see Daphne apologizing and trying to console him gives me a glimmer of hope. “What I meant to say was that our family sees things much differently than the Mage, which I’m sure isn’t a surprise to you.” 

“It’s not,” I snort. “He knows that.” My stepmother shoots me a dirty look, so I refrain from making any more unnecessary comments. 

“If Basil trusts you enough to bring you into our home, then I trust you, too,” Daphne finishes, pressing her lips together in a tight smile. “My husband’s opinion on the matter complicates things, but so long as you are a guest in our home, I can assure your safety and comfort.” Simon kisses my shoulder to tell me he’s doing alright, so I pull my arm back and give him space to adjust his posture. 

“And as much as you want to eat,” Daphne adds as an afterthought. This comment has Simon’s stomach rumbling, even though it’s barely been two hours since breakfast. 

“Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Gr—Daphne,” Simon says appreciatively. “But, um, could I—could we, rather, ask you something? About magic?” 

I almost smack myself, because for once, Simon is thinking way ahead of me. My father was extremely uncomfortable with this morning’s conversation, and we all know for a fact that the only reason he agreed to help us was to get Simon out of our house as fast as possible. I know my father cares about my wellbeing, but he also has the integrity of our family’s property to worry about – not to mention the glaring fact of his eldest son’s inability to pass on the family name and legacy. But Daphne trusts him to look out for her and the children, which leaves her free to help me (and Simon, of course) find an answer to our conundrum. 

“Of course,” my stepmother answers, as I knew she would. Simon and I tag-team to tell her the condensed, 12A version of our story, which we’ve almost perfected at this point, we’ve had to explain it so many times. Unlike Father, Daphne reacts emotionally to it all. 

“This must be so confusing and terrifying for you both,” she expresses, leaning forward in her seat. “From an outside perspective, the first thing that comes to my mind is that someone tried to use magic on you, but failed to execute whatever the intended purpose of their spell happened to be.” 

“How do you mean?” Simon asks, frowning. 

“You’re asking, ‘Who on earth would benefit from this situation,’ right?” I confirm with my stepmother. “Usually, people have reasons for using magic on others without their knowledge: they’re angry, or hurt, or want something from you.” 

“Correct,” Daphne agrees. “So who might want to link the two of you together, and why? Since this started while you were at school, it makes the most sense that it would be someone you know, or have interacted with at Watford.” 

“Like, do we have any enemies?” Simon wonders, glancing towards me uneasily. “Well…” 

“Historically, the only disagreements Snow and I have had are with each other,” I say evenly. “He’s well-liked by students and staff. And I’m not everyone’s favourite person by any means, but I can’t remember having a disagreement with anyone in particular.” The three of us sit quietly for a moment, trying to brainstorm possible motives, and are interrupted by a knock at the library door – _what a bloody surprise_. Simon drops my hand like it’s on fire, and we scramble to opposite sides of the sofa. 

“Come in,” Daphne calls out when we’re settled far enough apart. The door swings open gently, and in walks our nanny. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen Vera look so distressed. 

“Mrs. Grimm, I don’t mean to alarm you,” she says, her voice wavering, “But Mr. Grimm is having a rather _heated_ discussion in his study, and I’d think it best if you checked on him as soon as possible.” Daphne is out of her seat in an instant. Halfway to the door, she turns to apologize, but I just wave her off. 

“We’ll still be here,” I assure her. “Try to keep him from setting the place alight; after all, I _am—”_

“Flammable,” she finishes softly. “I’m sorry, Baz.” And with that, Daphne and Vera are gone, and the door swings shut behind them. If I’m not mistaken, I hear the click of the lock turning. Even if she can’t be with us, my stepmother is protecting Simon and I as best she can. 

“What d’you think that was all about?” Simon inquires, shifting back towards me. The leather creaks beneath him as he moves. 

“Oh, he’s probably just raging about his disgrace of a son bringing his sort-of-boyfriend home for the holiday, even though said boyfriend’s foster father is the greatest threat to our family’s position and influence in the World of Mages,” I shrug nonchalantly. “Plus, he’s got to ask odd questions of other Coven members about forbidden magic without also letting it slip that he’s asking in order to help quell the extremely sexy dreams that disgraceful son and pseudo-boyfriend are both having on a nightly basis – plus a few unfortunate nightmares.” Snow stares at me, speechless. 

“Or his mobile service isn’t working well because of the storm rolling in,” I offer alternatively. 

“I think you need some serious psychological help,” Simon tells me as he pulls me into a hug. “And you need to quit calling me your almost-boyfriend, or whatever it is you’re rambling on about.” Snow must notice that my posture has stiffened with his rebuke, because he pulls back and regards me with a deep frown. 

“I shouldn’t have made such assumptions,” I say coldly, trying to conceal my crushing disappointment. _I thought we were on the same page, but apparently not._ “My apologies. It won’t happen again.” 

“Shut the actual fuck up, Pitch,” Simon growls, his heavy eyebrows drawing together in annoyance. “You’re not _almost_ or _sort of_ anything. You either are my boyfriend, or you aren’t. What’ll it be?” 

“Fine,” I snap, not truly comprehending what he’s said. I guess I'm going to have to accept that Snow has no interest in anything more than snogging when it suits us both. Definitely not what I want. 

“Fine?” Simon asks, confused. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I’m asking you to be my boyfriend, Basilton – is that a yes or a no?” 

“Wh—oh. Oh, you want—well, yes. Okay.” There I go again, losing the ability to form coherent sentences because of this freckle-faced idiot in front of me. 

“You sure?” Simon asks again. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

“I want to,” I nod enthusiastically. My voice is much softer than I want it to be, but what is a boy supposed to do when the guy he's in love with asks him such a thing? “I'd like that _very much."_

“Fine,” he shrugs, as if I’ve just agreed to drop off some notes for him after school, instead of agreeing to start a relationship. “So who do we think tried to curse us, then?” 

“You’re joking, right?” I ask, incredulous. “That’s—you want to talk about _that? Now?_ ” 

“Nope, just wanted to see how you’d react,” Simon says with a snicker. He grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me into a kiss so good, I can’t even be mad at him for being such a prat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *'A12' is the UK version of a PG-13 film rating, just in case you weren't aware.
> 
> Any predictions about who might have worked their magic on Simon and Baz?


	8. Chapter 8

**Baz**

“It’s not the Mage,” Simon says flatly, completely ignoring the slew of logical reasons I’ve just provided to back up my assertion. “Not a chance. The Mage hates your family, and the Pitches and Grimms hate him back. The last thing he would want is for me to fall for you.” 

“Too late for that,” I snort humourlessly. Simon chews on his lower lip as he regards the blackboard I’ve set up in the library. On one side of the board, I’ve written out the heading _‘Possible Suspects’_ with a piece of soft white chalk, and beneath it, I’ve scrawled a single name so far: The Mage. 

“What’s his motive, then?” Simon asks, fidgeting restlessly. “Wants me to quit asking for a new roommate?” He’s joking, but I’m certain the Mage would appreciate the reprieve. 

I have no idea how much pestering Snow actually did, but I do recall plenty of instances of the two whispering furiously in the corridor between classes or in the dining hall. Occasionally, I caught a snippet of their discussions (vampire hearing, 1; Simon Snow, nil), but more often than not, Snow gave himself away by shooting suspicious glances in my direction – completely oblivious to the fact that I have eyes, and could easily deduce that he was tattling on me for something. He can be a bit obtuse, that one. 

“If it was him – _which it is_ – he probably intended for the dreams to make us argue more, or something. There’s no way he could have known what was going on in my head while I slept,” I say with conviction. “Did you ever tell him about the sorts of things you dream about? If you had violent dreams about fighting or something, maybe he thought he could pit us against each other that way.” 

“Something about it just doesn’t _feel right,_ ” Simon mutters, mindlessly tapping his fingers against his leg. I might have to smack him if he doesn’t stop moving. “Who else might have wanted to push us together?” 

“Well, I’m certain Bunce could tell that things were changing between us,” I sigh begrudgingly. “And apparently I’m so bloody obvious that even Dev and Niall noticed me watching you a few weeks back.” 

“So maybe one of them thought they’d give us a bit of a push – speed things up, perhaps?” Simon wonders. 

“Dev and Niall don’t have the skill for a spell like this,” I say, shaking my head. “And you know Bunce better than I do. Other people’s love lives don’t seem like the sort of things she’d meddle in. She’s a talented mage, I’ll give her that, but she’s got integrity.” I write her name on the board just in case, causing Simon to scowl once more. Everyone listed so far is connected to him, not me, and the very thought that someone he cares about might have done this sets him on edge. 

“Penny wouldn’t use magic,” Simon agrees. “She’d trick us into spending time together, and convince us it was our own idea. All she wants is for me to move on, and keep my mind off…” 

“Agatha,” we both say at the same time. Simon’s expression is dark, and he’s crossed his arms over his chest as he considers this possibility. 

“You don’t think—” I start. 

“She wouldn’t. Right?” He questions, more for his own sake than mine. 

Agatha Wellbelove broke things off with Simon before my return to school in the fall, and I have a sneaking feeling that her reasoning wasn’t as simple as what she told him. She’s had a strange (and inappropriate, I might add) preoccupation with me ever since the day she caught me hunting in the woods last spring, and I was forced to tell her the truth about my _condition_. 

“I don’t know her well enough to say one way or another,” I shrug, frowning slightly. _Wellbelove couldn’t have liked me that much, right?_

“She fancies you, and you turned her down,” Simon reminds me, as if I hadn’t been present every time Wellbelove tagged along on my walks around the grounds, trailing behind me and attempting to flirt (only to be firmly rebuffed; she wasn’t a freckly moron, or a boy, so I wasn’t interested in the slightest). 

“Yes, well, I’m as gay as a bloody daffodil,” I snap defensively, “So she can pine after me all she wants, but that fact won’t change.” Snow’s fidgeting is becoming more pronounced, but I don’t know what to do to help settle him. Is he upset because I am, or because I’m systematically tearing apart his friend group and accusing them of illegal magic? 

“Does _she_ know that?” Simon asks, raising his eyebrows. “Because _I_ sure didn’t. Well, er—I mean, I suspected, after the, um…but you never said if it was just blokes you liked, or…or girls as well.” 

Simon’s freckled cheeks burn red, which I find oddly endearing – so much so that I set down the chalk I’ve been holding, approach the blushing mess of a boy, and set my hands on either side of his face. Perhaps this will distract him from whatever’s been making him so restless. His skin blazes beneath my fingers, and I tell him as much. 

“Careful now, Baz,” he says, stepping closer. I’ve come to recognize the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that appears only when he’s decided to rib me mercilessly. “You’re flammable, remember?” 

“Shut up, Snow,” I say with a slight rasp. For some reason, my throat dries up anytime he decides to flirt with me, and it makes it difficult to get my words out without sounding like I’m desperate for him. I _am_ desperate for him, the fool. 

“Make me,” he challenges, setting his hands on my hips. 

“I want to,” I say in earnest, dipping my head forward so that our foreheads and the tips of our noses are touching. “Crowley, I want to, Simon, but—” 

“Later,” he fills in. “We’ve got to get _something_ done before your father gets suspicious, and thinks that all we do is snog or something.” 

“All I _want_ to do is snog, or something,” I whine. Simon tilts his face and presses his lips to the corner of my mouth for a count of three, then pulls away from me, taking a few steps backward. He’s smart enough to know that if kisses me for real, it will quickly evolve into more than a chaste three seconds of affection. 

“No more pouting, now,” Simon smiles, turning back to the blackboard. He’s acting like an adult for once, to my amazement. “Let’s get some work done on this so we can actually do something fun later.” All hint of flirtation has disappeared from his voice, so at this point, I can’t tell whether the “fun” he’s referring to involves gingerbread-house building with Mordelia (who conned Simon into promising he’d help her later today), or something less innocent. 

In the end, we’ve got a short list of suspects. There’s the Mage, who has been trying to convince Snow to hate my family for as long as they’ve known each other. Bunce is a stretch, but she’s strong enough, and might have motive. There’s no way Wellbelove is strong enough, but because she’s Simon’s ex, and won’t leave me alone at school, she has to be on our list. 

The last person I think could plausibly have caused this, I can’t write on the board, because it’s Simon himself. He wouldn’t have done it on purpose, but Snow’s magic is so volatile that even simple spells somehow end up botched when he does them. I’ve been weighing the pros and cons of suggesting this theory (gently, of course), but Simon has been twitchy for the entirety of our discussion, and I think it might be a bit too much for him right now. I tuck this possibility away in my mind, and focus instead on insisting it’s the Mage, because I desperately want it to be true. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

_Fucking hell, it’s me, isn’t it?_ Baz drones on about how this is likely the work of the Mage, but even goes so far as to suggest evidence that Penny, or even _Agatha_ of all people might have cursed us into having conjoined and intimate dreams. He won’t say that he’s thinking it, but I can see right through the tosser – he’s almost certain that I’m the root of the issue. 

It makes sense, the more I think about it. I’m a proper mess at controlling my magic, and it’s a well-known fact. My spells have gone wrong in ways that our teachers never thought possible; I know this because of the look of disbelief on their faces after I’ve managed to coat the walls of a whole classroom in brown sludge while attempting to stir a potion with my wand, or blow a crater in the football pitch when Baz has pushed me a bit too far with his mockery (that last one was years ago, just to be clear). 

I know I should stop Baz from all this ridiculous speculation and just tell him that _I know_ , but the words won’t come out. Instead, I chew at my fingernails, or count the number of books on a shelf across the room – anything to distract myself. Baz catches on quickly, but doesn’t call me out on it. His eyebrows (bloody perfect, of course) knit closer together the longer he watches me drum my fingers against the side of my leg, or run a hand through my hair. By the end of this discussion, I’ll probably have a bald spot, I’ve been tugging at my curls so hard. 

When Baz takes my face in his hands, I almost manage to ignore my guilt for a minute, but it comes roaring back the second we break apart. _Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault,_ my brain repeats, quiet but incessant, just enough to make me visibly distracted. Baz could be in deep trouble with his father, with the Old Families, with the Mage himself – and it’s my own doing. _Mea culpa; mea maxima culpa._ But I have no fucking idea how I’ve done it, and I can’t ask for help. I’m on my own here. 

“Snow, have you completely tuned me out?” Baz interrupts my train of thought, and my eyes snap up to meet his, grey and unforgiving. It’s been a week since he exchanged his trademark sneer for a more mellow tone, and I find that I’ve almost missed this facet of Baz’s personality. I hated it when he addressed me with disgust every moment of the day, but the occasional comment stinging with sarcasm reminds me that Baz is still the same bloke I’ve know all these years. 

“Huh?” I ask, my mouth hanging open. I can’t help it sometimes, looking like a bit of a dunce, especially when I’ve got Baz in front of me, looking like _this_. His angular face, the feather-soft hair he’s constantly brushing out of his eyes, and pouting lips pink from his last blood meal make me weak in the knees. The corners of his mouth turn upwards a fraction of a centimeter. Apparently my slack-jawed expression convinces him that he’s been the source of my distraction. 

“Staring is impolite, you know,” he chastises gently. “Really need to brush up on your manners, Snow, if you’re going to stay for Christmas dinner.” 

“S-Sorry,” I stammer, pitching forward a little, because now, Baz is distracting me. I managed to control myself just a few minutes ago, but apparently my resolve is waning. “I’ll behave myself, I promise.” 

“You eat like it’s the first time you’ve seen food in your life, and it’s like that at every meal,” he remarks. Before, I might have taken a comment like this as an insult, but now I know he means it more as an observation. The delivery could use some work. But I’m not an unreasonable bloke, so I don’t expect him to stop being such a git after just a week. 

“S’wot happens when Matron sends you to bed without supper four nights a week,” I throw back. “Penny reckons that’s why I’m so skinny.” Mentioning my days living in care homes always makes Baz wince, but I figure it might teach him something about using the right tone when he feels the need to share his observations aloud. 

“Simon,” he says, his voice pained, “I’m—I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“I know,” I reply with a shrug. 

“Let’s…we should go out for a bit and do something different,” he says decidedly. “We need a break – from this house, from poring over books… _from my family,_ ” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear. 

“Er—okay,” I nod, instantly sold on this proposition. Maybe if we go outside, throw a bit of snow at each other, my brain will take a break from the guilty ruminations. Maybe it’ll make some room for some logical thoughts, and I’ll suddenly realize what I’ve done to curse Baz and myself. It’s not likely, but a bit of hope might do me some good. 

As if he’s reading my mind, Baz suggests we throw on our jackets and mittens and take a drive into town to check out some of the Christmas markets. They’ll be busy this close to the holiday itself, so we won’t have to worry about being seen by people that recognize us. It’ll give me the chance to find something for his stepmother, who I desperately want to thank for her kindness in letting me stay for the hols, and if I can shake him for a few minutes, I might be able to find a gift for Baz as well. He’s got his own list to work on, because for some reason, he’s told Vera that he’ll do his shopping himself (for the first time ever, mind you.) 

“It might be a bit slushy,” he says, opening the library door and ushering me out. “But if I put a warming charm on our wellingtons, we should be fine.” With a few flicks of his wand, the blackboard is wiped clean, and all the books we’ve piled on the table return to their places on the shelves. 

“Wellingtons?” I snort, following him down the corridor towards what I assume is a coatroom. I’ve come to realize that Baz just can’t help but sound snobbish. I know it’s not right to tease him for his upbringing, but how can I not laugh when he constantly talks as though he’s having a chat with Her Maj? “Wellies, Baz; they’re called wellies,” I laugh, giving his shoulder blade a teasing smack with the back of my hand. 

“Ugh,” he sighs dramatically, annoyed at being corrected by someone he’s accused in the past of, and I quote, _“barely being able to string a sentence together.”_ “Fine. Have you brought a pair of _wellies,_ Snow, or do you need to borrow some of mine?” 

“You’ve got more than one pair?” 

“Of course I do,” he says, frowning as though I’ve asked something ridiculous. 

“Oh.” I’m not going to tell him, but I own a total of one pair of shoes. Judging by the odd look he’s giving me, Baz must have a whole closetful. 

Once we’re out of range of his father’s watchful gaze, Baz grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine. His skin is cool, but the gesture is so full of caring and warmth, I barely notice the chill. With his free hand, he turns the knob of a door I hadn’t even noticed until now. It’s not as ornate as the others in the house, so perhaps that’s why I’ve never seen it. He tugs me into the spacious room (he’d probably call it a cupboard, the prat) and leaves the door open a sliver, for propriety’s sake. 

“This all belongs to me,” he explained, gesturing with an open palm towards an entire rack of coats. “Pick whatever you like and I’ll spell it to fit you properly.” When I glance at him questioningly, he rolls his eyes. “You’ve got broader shoulders and bigger arms than me, Snow. You’ll want to wear something that actually fits if you want to stay warm, and not look like an idiot.” Do his cheeks seem a bit more pink than they did a minute ago, or am I just seeing things in the dim lighting? 

“Right,” I say, a sly smile creeping over my face. “So you’ve spent a fair amount of time eyeing me up, then, if you’re so familiar with my ‘broad shoulders’?” 

_“You. Fucking. Wish,”_ Baz says, enunciating each word. I know he’s just being cheeky for the benefit of potential eavesdroppers, but the flush in his cheeks tells me he’s thought about my shoulders more often than he’s willing to admit. 

He scans the shelf above the coat racks in search of something, and releases my hand in order to pull down a wicker basket stocked with hats and mittens. I’m immediately drawn to a navy blue patterned hat with a pompom atop it, and get even more excited when I pull it out of the basket to find that it’s got a string ending in pompoms attached to each earflap. 

“This is brilliant,” I laugh, pulling it on without a care for the headful of curls I’m surely messing up even further by wearing it. Baz reaches out, grabs the dangling pompom strings, and ties them in a neat bow beneath my chin. His crooked smirk tells me that I look beyond ridiculous, but I’m willing to keep it that way if it means Baz will continue to smile. 

“Have you got matching mittens, then?” I inquire, rifling through the basket of knitwear. “Or a scarf, maybe?” 

“How old are you?” He quirks an eyebrow. 

“Sod off, Pitch,” 

“There’d be no one around to take you to the markets if I sod off,” Baz reasons. “You’ll have to keep me around another hour or two. Sorry, Snow.” 

I locate a pair of mittens in a similar shade of blue, and decide they’ll work well enough. Baz suggests a smart navy jacket, and when I’ve managed to squeeze my arms into the sleeves, I glance at myself in full-body mirror mounted on the cupboard wall. 

“Brilliant,” I say, hiding my pleasure as I turn and admire myself. “Aren’t you looking forward to being seen in public with me?” Baz cocks his head slightly as he looks me over. 

“You won’t be with me long,” he snickers, eyeing the upturned cuffs of my trousers and my unique choice of headwear. “You’ll be arrested by the fashion police within minutes if you wear that hat, I’m certain of it.” 

“Rude!” I scold, giving his arm a smack. “Don’t be such a tosser.” I fiddle with the strings of my hat, untying them so that they hang nicely. When I hear Baz clear his throat, I turn to see that he’s wrapped in an emerald green, knee-length bridge coat, with supple leather gloves to protect his fingers from the cold, and a perfectly respectable hat without a single pompom. How he can manage to put on _more clothes_ and look even more attractive than he did before, I’ll never know. 

“Outside, now,” I manage to choke out. If we stay in this cupboard a moment longer, we’re sure to be caught doing something we shouldn’t. 

“I’ll get the keys,” Baz says, swallowing hard. “Go wait by the carriage house, I’ll meet you there in a minute.” The fact that he has to differentiate between the carriage house and the garage significantly raises my ‘Baz is a pretentious git’ meter, but I want him alone, so I decide not to mention it like I usually would. 

As promised, I only have to wait a moment before Baz flies out of the house, a vision in green as he lopes down the snowy driveway. The door to the carriage house rises automatically, either by magic or automatic door remote, revealing the vehicle Baz has been given permission to drive. 

“We’re taking _that_?” I ask, my mouth hanging open as I stare at the black Jaguar parked ahead of us. “Baz, it’s the bloody winter. Don’t you have something a bit more…I d’know, practical?” 

“And what would you suggest, Father Christmas’s sleigh?” Baz counters, walking towards the driver’s side of the vehicle. “Sorry, Snow, the reindeer are saving their energy for Christmas Eve, so this’ll have to do.” 

“Piss off,” I mumble, following him into the heated building. When I step down into the Jaguar, I swear I’m almost sitting on the ground, the seat is so low. Baz looks perfectly at home in the driver’s seat, his willowy legs stretched out before him, and one hand settled atop the gearshift. It’s barely a minute before we’re tearing down the long, winding driveway. 

It’s snowed a fair bit since the drive was cleared of snow, but Baz flicks his wand every now and then to sweep the fluffy, meringue-like drifts to either side of the pavement. I still can’t understand after six years in the World of Mages how some people, like Baz and Penny, can feel comfortable using such a precious resource for the most menial of tasks. Penny, for example, uses magic to brush her hair in the mornings, to summon a plate just out of her reach instead of asking for it to be passed, and even to tie her laces for her if she’s just not feeling like doing them herself some days. Maybe if I wasn’t constantly putting more power than required behind my spells, I’d be able to do up my tie in a neat half-Windsor as Baz does with just the flick of my wand. 

We drive for another few minutes before Baz notes a vacant street ahead without any limited parking signage. It’s residential, but the houses are spaced far apart, and aren’t lit up with Christmas lights. He turns down the empty road, does a quick U-turn so that we’re facing the correct direction for parking, and pulls over out the direct line of sight of any one house. 

“What are we doing here?” I’m daft enough to ask. Baz ignores me as he casts _**“Nothing to see here!”**_ over the vehicle and undoes his seatbelt. 

“Move your seat back,” he says sharply. 

“What…” 

“We’re out of the house, and _no one is around,_ Snow,” Baz murmurs, his words slow and deliberate. “You’ve got 10 seconds to figure it out and do something about it, or we’re going straight to the Christmas market.” 

Oh. _Oh._ Sweet Merlin, will I ever stop blushing over this boy? 

“Right, yep. Okay,” I stammer, quickly reaching down beneath the seat for the lever that adjusts its position. Pressing my feet firmly against the floor, I push back until the seat has no more room to move. Baz deftly clambers over the centre console and into my lap, with the inside of his thighs pressed against the outside of my own. 

“There we are,” he croons, smiling down at me. “How’s this?” As he dips forward to rests his nose along mine, he stealthily pulls the lever on the side of the seat, laying me flat on my back. All I can do is nod up at him with nervous assurance. 

Baz’s expression borders on menacing, so when he leans in and kisses me in a way I can only describe as impossibly sweet, I let out a throaty whimper of relief. Somehow, he makes my brain so fuzzy that if he’d bitten me, I’d have praised him for it. He smiles against my lips and takes the sound as encouragement to carry on. My hands settle on his waist, beneath his coat where his shirt covers his trousers, just as his fingers thread up into my hair. 

In the past, I might have been too anxious for this sort of thing, for fear of repeating a situation common to Normal films, where a patrolling officer interrupts the couple fooling around inside a car by tapping on the window with his torch. With Baz, I feel safe, because I trust his judgement, and that his concealment spell will hold as long as he wants it to. I never considered that what I was missing with Agatha might have been trust and a feeling of safety, but these are two things Baz has given me that make the physical aspect of the relationship so much less terrifying. 

The air around us heats up as we loosen up, shuck off coats and hats and shirts. Where we were once two distinct people meeting in the middle, we’ve become a blur of hands and skin, tongues and teeth, messy and carefree because we’re _finally_ alone. It’s a gift, a relief to be able to snog the boy I like into oblivion instead of running around the UK on errands for the Mage. Baz’s mouth on mine begins to make up for five years of blood I’ve had to wash from my hands. 

I'll keep the rest of the details to myself, thank you, but once we've fixed our hair and dressed ourselves appropriately, we continue on to a Christmas market, where we both manage to find all the gifts we need. I tuck Baz's gift away in my pocket so he won't find it, and we return to the house with enough boxes and bags (mostly Baz's, I'll have everyone know) to fill half of his bedroom. I make good on my promise of building gingerbread houses with Mordelia while Baz and his father discuss something in his study, and the day ends better than I could have hoped, with _one_ exception: 

When Mrs. Grimm came to see how Mordie and I were coming along with our frosted creations, I caught her staring at me, an oddly bemused expression on her face. She came to stand behind us, setting one hand on my shoulder, and one on her daughters. I glanced up just in time to see Daphne tap the gem of her ruby necklace, and felt the warm flush of magic run through me. With a wink, she left us to continue our project, giving no explanation for her actions. 

Baz, however, noticed as soon as I tugged my shirt off for the night. 

"Did you heal yourself?" he wondered, tapping his index finger against the base of my throat. 

"Heal myself from what?" 

And in that moment, I learned that my boyfriend's mum had been so courteous as to use magic to cover up the hickey her son had given me not three hours before.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas day at Pitch Manor is full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My finger slipped and it ended up being 6.3k instead of like 3. Whoops?

**Baz**

Somehow, despite the bumps in the road we experienced in our first day or two of the break, Snow and I quickly fall into the rhythms of life at Pitch Manor. We eat breakfast with Daphne and the children, and spend the morning in the library searching through our family’s extensive collection for answers. Our dream bond continues to plague us (or so I tell my father) with what I’m relieved to say aren’t nightmares. Now that we aren’t bickering constantly, the subjects of our dreams have evened out, featuring themes of contentment and domesticity, instead of lusty trysts or monster chases. 

A few nights ago, for example, our dreams featured Snow and I settling into a flat of our own: a simple little place in a quiet but unspecified London community. I can’t remember all the details, and neither can he, but we both recall the feelings of warmth and comfort that remained even after we were both awake for the day. Little snippets of the dream stick in my mind – a framed photo of Snow and his friends, and another of myself with Dev and Niall, both hanging on a wall in the den; a closet filled with clothes, a mixture of my own bespoke shirts and trousers, and comfortable outfits that can only be Simon’s. The bits and pieces I can recall leave me achingly soft, wanting nothing more than to see the dream become reality. When I awoke to Simon’s fingers raking gently through my hair, I knew he was feeling the same way. 

It’s been nearly a week since we arrived in Hampshire, a week in which Simon quickly endeared himself to all of my siblings. Mordelia has had to be told on multiple occasions (by myself, Daphne, and even my father) that she can’t be the only one to whom Simon gives his attention. She convinced him to build gingerbread houses on the first real day we spent at the manor, and since then, it’s been nearly impossible to separate the two. 

The twins, Acantha and Arabella (a mouthful that I blame Daphne for) claim the seats on either side of Snow each evening at the dinner table, and insist that he be the one to help them cut their meat into manageable bites. They hang off his arms and beg him to join them outside on clear afternoons, where they’ve made a game of lobbing snowballs at him until he falls dramatically into a heap and pretends to be a slain monster. 

Even baby Damien has taken a shine to Snow. One evening when Father was taking an important call, Daphne was struggling to calm the baby, who was feverish with an ear infection. He had been wailing for half the day, barely pausing long enough to breathe. Vera and Daphne had both tried every trick in their child-rearing books, from warm milk to soothing spells, but nothing was working. Simon offered to hold Damien for a few minutes to give my stepmother a break, much to my surprise. I knew he liked children, but babies were another thing entirely. 

Gently and with great care, Simon took Damien into his arms. He arranged the baby so that he was facing outwards, cradled against Simon’s chest, using his forearm to support the boy’s weight. Damien’s head settled into the crook of Snow’s elbow, and though he was still fussing, he began to calm as Simon hummed a tune (completely off-key) that I recognized as one of the pieces I had practiced on my violin back at Watford. Within minutes, Damien went from screaming bloody murder to smacking his lips sleepily, and eventually, the boy fell into a slumber Daphne had feared would never come. 

“I helped out with the young’uns when I lived in care homes,” Simon explained when she asked what his secret was. “S’no big deal, really.” 

It was at that moment that Father, whose exhausted expression matched Daphne’s to a T, entered the room, having finished with his phone call. 

“I thought he’d never stop,” Father sighed. “I could barely hear myself think—” Father stopped midsentence, his mouth falling open like a confused fish when he saw Simon with Damien in his arms, snoozing soundly. 

“What…how did he…” he attempted, trailing off as he glanced between Daphne and Simon. His eyebrows knit together, and his expression was somehow both relieved and annoyed all at once. _It’s bad enough to have the boy staying with us,_ I could almost hear him say, _but to have the Mage’s heir, an enemy to our family, holding our child?_

“Malcolm, this is the first time he’s stopped crying in _hours,_ ” Daphne cut in before Father could say anything more. Her sharp gaze pierced through my father’s disdain, communicating a clear warning: _If you do anything to wake that baby up, you’ll be sleeping on the sofa tonight._ Instead of responding to Simon’s actions with anger, Father nodded graciously in Snow’s direction. 

“Thank you, Mr. Snow,” Father remarked curiously, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Damien. “Your magic may be unpredictable, but it seems as though you’ve managed to enchant my children.” Simon looked to me, his eyes uncertain, but all I could do was shrug. I won’t pretend to understand the inner workings of my father’s mind. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

Christmas at Pitch Manor was…not what I expected, to say the least. 

I jolt awake at the squeak of Baz’s bedroom door as it’s thrown open. Instead of Mordelia bursting in unannounced this time, two giggling girls in matching green pyjama frocks race into the room. I’ve been sneaking out of bed early enough each morning to prevent a repeat of the Malcolm situation, so the girl with the braids (Acantha, I think?) joins me where I’ve been sleeping on sofa. Her sister Arabella, sporting a pair of pigtails tied with red bows, hops onto the bed to jump on Baz. 

“Wake up, Simon!” Acantha shouts directly in my ear, which makes me yelp out in pain. The four-year-old is practically vibrating with excitement, so it’s hard to be angry with her. “Father Christmas came!” she declares exuberantly. 

“Baaazzz, come on!” Arabella insists, shaking her brother’s shoulder with as much force as a child still in nursery school can muster. “Get _up,_ Basil, we’ve got _presents!_ ” 

“ _Eurghhh,_ ” comes Baz’s strangled reply. He swats uselessly at his sister, unable to actually see where she is with his face pressed into his pillow. The girls aren’t even phased by their initial lack of success, and continue on with their assault. Acantha moves to kneel beside my head and pokes a sharp fingernail into the skin of my cheek repeatedly, which I’d argue is one of the less pleasant ways I’ve been forced to wake up in my life. 

“‘Cantha…it’s barely even light out,” I grumble, rubbing the sleep from my bleary eyes with the knuckle of my index finger. “Father Christmas probably wants us all to sleep a bit longer, don’t y’think?” 

“Mum said to wake up you and Basil,” she replies, shifting her attention from my cheek to the bit of skin between my brows. The hundredth or so time she stabs at me with her claw of a fingernail, I let out a low warning growl and snap my teeth at her finger, sending the girl into another fit of giggles. 

“ _Simon_ ,” she chastises me with a smile. “You can’t eat fingers, silly!” From the bottom of the stairs, I hear Malcolm’s voice as he calls the girls down for breakfast. The two don’t seem disappointed in the least that they weren’t able to complete their mission, probably because they’re too excited about having sweets first thing in the morning, and opening their stockings, to care about us. 

Grimacing, I sit up on the sofa and glance towards the bed, where I see a human-shaped lump beneath the blankets. The lump has arms, which are holding a pillow over the top of its head to block out light and noise. I haul myself up off the couch and make for the door, which I close and lock, just in case. 

“Morning, Pitch,” I yawn, crawling beneath the blankets and wrapping an arm around Baz’s cool shoulders. The chill of his skin always throws me off when he’s been buried under a pile of blankets, even though I know he’s a vampire. 

“You can’t make me get up, Snow,” he groans, the sound muffled by the pillow over his head. “I don’t care how cute you think you are.” 

“It’s Christmas morning, Baz. Don’t you want to have breakfast with your family?” I ask, scratching my nails across his shoulders the way he likes (a discovery I made a few days ago). Taking a chance, I lift the pillow off his head, and he doesn’t yank it back or swear at me. 

“It’s an ungodly hour,” he argues, rolling over onto his side to face me. His silky black hair is a bit of a knotted and tangled mess this morning, which he discovers when he reaches up to push it back from his forehead. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Simon,” he practically screeches, “What have you done to my hair?!” 

“I was just playing with it – last night before we fell asleep!” I defend myself, holding my hands up to protect my face. “You don’t have to be such a dramatic git about everything. Just take a shower and give it a good brush, and you’ll be good as new.” 

“I can’t believe I let you within 10 feet of me, let alone _sleep_ beside me,” Baz mumbles to himself as he detangles his legs from his sheets. “What in Crowley’s name have I gotten myself into?” His icicle fingers brush against the bare skin of my side, but I must not have moved away fast enough, because he shoves me out of the bed a moment later. Baz steps gingerly over my body on his way to the bathroom, stooping down to where I’m sprawled out on the rug to press a kiss to my temple. 

“Happy Christmas, Simon Snow,” he murmurs, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

“S’food downstairs, I think,” Simon tells me when I return to my room, as though I don’t have a nose. He is waiting patiently on the sofa for me, shirtless, but wearing the pyjama trousers I loaned him on our first night here, even though I’m certain Daphne had some purchased for him. When I inhale, the scents of spiced bread and mulled wine greet me, the latter of which is presumably being saved for later in the day. 

I could mock Snow for his redundant comment, but instead I crawl into his lap and kiss him properly. To my continued surprise, I don’t mind a bit that he has morning breath. I’m just so pleased to be able to hold him close, and to bask in the warmth of his attention. 

“Merry Christmas to you, too,” Simon chuckles, smiling against my mouth. I would carry on kissing him, but the rumble in his belly sounds akin to that of an earthquake, which frankly worries me. I’ve said it before, but I’ve never met someone that can eat like Snow. 

“Go shower, get dressed, and meet me downstairs,” I instruct, punctuating each direction with a short kiss. “And wear the outfit I’ve set out for you. It’s hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door.” 

“You’re like a little girl with a Barbie,” he teases, “Dressing me up however you fancy.” 

“Boys can play with Barbies, too,” I say with a frown. “I’ll have you know she’s a career woman, Snow, and role model to children everywhere.” 

“My bad,” Simon apologizes with a giggle. It’s a bubbly sound so cute I almost can’t bear to let him leave me in favour of the shower. 

“Plus, whenever anyone lets you dress yourself, you choose something atrocious,” I continue, ignoring Simon’s indignant expression. “Honestly, Snow, a colour-blind numpty could probably pick out a shirt and trousers that match before you could.” 

“There’s the Baz I know and love,” Simon declares, pulling me to his chest in a crushing hug. My instinct is to smack at or push him away, but he’s strong enough to hold my arms against my sides until my rational brain has had an opportunity to think it through and accept his affection. 

“Okay, we’re going to be late if you don’t leave this room _right now,_ ” I inform him, “And I’d rather my father didn’t have to come find us himself.” 

“Right,” Simon nods, kissing my cheek before he releases me. I roll off his lap onto the sofa and watch as he heads towards the bedroom door, turning around halfway and walking backwards so he can smile at me on his way out. There’s no grace in his stride, and he practically stomps instead of walking like a normal human, but I can’t help but feel stupidly happy when I look at Snow. He’s everything my family detests in a person, yet somehow everything I could ever want. 

“Ouch!” Snow grunts as the doorknob stabs him in the spine. He was so busy staring at me that he didn’t even consider glancing back to see where he was going. I thought he’d pay better attention to his surroundings, but again, I’m proven wrong. He’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot. 

* * * * * 

Simon and I sit beside each other at breakfast for the first time in days, mostly because Mordelia and the twins had voracious appetites this morning, and are already in the den ripping into their Christmas stockings. Daphne and my father sit directly across from us, making polite conversation when they feel it necessary: did Simon sleep well, and were we making any progress on our library search? I can tell that Snow is making an effort to eat slowly, to chew his food all the way instead of wolfing it down. I chastised him for his table manners on the first day he was here, but now it’s obvious he’s adjusting his behaviour for the sake of my father’s opinion of him. He _wants_ to be liked, despite the conditioning the Mage has done to turn him against my family. 

“Your stockings are hanging from the mantle, boys,” Daphne says once the tea has been served, “And you’re welcome to open them after breakfast.” 

“Stockings?” Simon repeats, his teacup hovering an inch from his mouth. I reach out and tilt the cup upwards, so he won’t spill on the lovely cream jumper I chose for him to wear this morning. Taking my cue, he sets the cup back down on its saucer with a loud clink. 

“Of course, darling,” Daphne coos, her eyebrows drawing together in slight confusion. “You’re spending the holidays with us. Why wouldn’t you get one?” Simon turns his gaze down at his lap, embarrassed. After he discovered all the clothes Daphne had purchased for him, he had taken on the same expression. He may have grown up without much, but he’s a proud young man, and doesn’t like to accept anything he sees as charity. 

“Father Christmas is a smart man, Mr. Snow,” Father says, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If he can find you at Watford, or at the Wellbeloves, he can find you here as well.” 

“Oh,” is all Simon can think to say. He nods, and his coppery curls bounce with the slight movement of his head. There’s something he isn’t saying, and I think I know what it is. I nudge at his ankle with the toe of my shoe before pressing my thigh firmly against his. 

“Father Christmas has never come for you, has he?” I ask, keeping my voice low. Father and Daphne hear anyways, and both remain silent so as to hear Snow’s response. 

“Not that I can remember.” 

Daphne’s mouth falls open a bit, but she snaps it shut when Father gives her hand a quick squeeze. My father could use this opportunity to mock Simon for his upbringing, to gloat over the Mage for not providing the upbringing he and Daphne were able to give us, but he doesn’t. In fact, the wrinkle between his white brows is one of sympathy. 

“Well then, Mr. Snow,” Father says, jerking his chin in the direction of the teapot so that it rises from the table and fills Simon’s cup once more, “I hope this year will make up for lost time.” 

* * * * * 

The den is filled to the ceiling with floating bits of tissue paper sent up by my siblings’ eager hands. Snow’s mouth is agape, and I’m surprised he hasn’t breathed in a shred of the stuff and choked on it yet. He’s told Daphne no less than four times that she’s done a magnificent job of decorating, as if she brought out the ladder and did up the room herself. The manor’s ceilings are quite high, so the tree Daphne selected to place gifts under is in excess of 15 feet, I’d guess, and has been dressed with baubles, tinsel, and heirloom ornaments in matching tones of burgundy and gold. 

The children are playing happily with some of their gifts, while the less exciting ones (new clothes, mostly) have been spirited up to their bedrooms by one of the servants. Mordelia is assembling the 3-dimensional wooden puzzle Simon got her, which is meant to look like a dinosaur of some sort when she’s finished. The twins are dressing up the dolls they received from Mother and Father, each sporting the hairdo the girls tend to wear themselves (plaits for Acantha, pigtails for Arabella). 

My parents’ gifts to me this year are lovely, but not unexpected. In the World of Mages, I’ve come of age, which is of significance in a family as old and as powerful as ours. From Father, I receive a signet ring with the Pitch and Grimm family crests merged into one cohesive crest, and a pocket watch engraved with my maternal great-grandfather’s initials. When I opened it, Simon immediately pointed to the curled ‘T’ and guessed correctly that it stood for the name that is the bane of my existence – Tyrannus. 

As a joint gift from my parents, I got a pair of keys that I recognize well. I’ve been ribbing my father about handing over the Jag for the better part of three years, and I’ve been told that Fiona will be depositing the newest model in the carriage house by dinnertime tonight. Simon’s eyes grew to the size of dinner plates at that reveal, though I can’t tell whether it’s because he finds it to be an outrageous gift (it is), or if he’s thinking about me taking him for another drive where we end up snogging in the passenger seat for an hour (I will). 

Simon and I decided that we would exchange gifts in private after dinner, which had my father raising an eyebrow. If I was a bit more bold, I might have made a snide comment alluding to the gifts being of a sexual nature, but I don’t want to have a discussion with Mordelia having to explain that sort of thing, and I’d prefer that Father allow Simon to stay the remainder of the break in once piece. 

As I knew he would be, Simon is overwhelmed by the pile of gifts Daphne has for him. She and I exchange conspiratorial glances as he opens new outfits and shoes that I’m certain will look dashing on him. None of it is posh to the level of what I prefer to wear, but will dress him up well enough that he can be both comfortable and respectable. Mordelia and the girls spent an afternoon making him terrible crafts, which he receives with delight, pulling them into hugs that make it seem as though their gifts are more precious to him than diamonds, as they very well might be. Every time the girls have piled onto him when we’ve sat down to watch a film altogether, his eyes have gone a bit misty. 

Before Simon picks up the last gift in his pile, my father stands up and invites him to his office, bidding him to bring the small rectangular parcel with him. I get up to follow, but Daphne meets my eye and shakes her head slightly; this is something my father wants to do alone, her expression tells me. The separation makes me nervous, but after the incident in his office on our first morning at the manor, I trust my father not to blow Simon’s head off in a moment of anger. 

When they return a few minutes later, Simon seems both calm yet slightly off, but I can’t ask him about it in front of my parents. He smiles as he settles in on the sofa beside me, but sits closer than he did before, despite my father’s presence. What could that possibly mean? By now, though, it’s late afternoon, and my parents dismiss us all to go get ready for dinner. 

The only additional guest we’re expecting is Fiona, and she’ll arrive “whenever the hell she feels like it,” as she’s explained to Father on numerous occasions. Daphne has given up on playing the gracious hostess with my aunt, recognizing that nothing she does will make Fiona like her any more than she does now. So long as she doesn’t pretend to be a replacement for my mother, Fiona won’t make rude comments about Daphne being Father’s “second wife.” The dynamic is strange, I’m aware, but we all accept it because Fiona is family, and she was the one that stuck around and cared for Father and I after my mother’s death. 

* * * * * 

**Simon**

The moment we’re both back in Baz’s room, he corners me exactly as I knew he would. 

“What in Chomsky’s name did my father want with you in his office?” he asks, grabbing both of my hands. I don’t even really have to say anything, because his fingers graze the gift in the process. “What is this?” He rolls up the sleeve of my jumper to get a better look at the metal object around my wrist. 

“Use your eyes, Pitch,” I tease, leaning in to give him a quick kiss. “It’s a watch, obviously.” 

“Yes, Snow, I see that it’s a watch,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “But what is the significance of it? Why did he want you alone when he gave it to you.” 

This is a touchier question. I’m hesitant to tell him the entire truth, because I’m still so surprised by it all: that Malcolm ushered me into his office, watched as I opened the handsome leather box, and laughed – _chuckled,_ even – at the confusion written across my face when I pulled out the watch. 

“It was his, apparently; Malcolm’s, that is,” I explain slowly. “He, uh, wanted me to have it because I don’t…” 

“You don’t have anything from _your_ father, whoever he is, or was,” Baz finishes for me. He regards me with the same curious expression Malcolm turned on me at dinner. Rarely do I see any of Malcolm in the young man before me, but it’s evident now. Malcolm Grimm has a paternal softness to him, even if he doesn’t want the Mage’s heir to know it. 

“Right,” I nod, swallowing the lump I’ve felt building in my throat since I had done up the watch’s clasp around my wrist. “There’s, um, something else as well.” 

“I know what it does,” Baz says, tapping the face of the watch with his index finger. “It’s imbued with magic that will tell you whether someone is speaking the truth or not.” 

“Yeah, he showed me how to work it.” This is where I hope the discussion will stop, but I know Baz is too perceptive for his own good. 

“Showed you how?” he asks, raising one perfectly groomed eyebrow. One of these days, I’m going to reach up and rub my thumbs across the silly things, make them a bit wilder so they’ll be more like mine. Everything about his face is stupid perfect, and it’s just not fair. 

“He asked me if I was in love with you.” 

“Of course he did, the tricky bastard,” Baz snorts, shaking his head. “So you told him, of course. He could have been lying about the watch, Simon!” 

“Well, I wasn’t about to take that bloody chance,” I shout back. “Remember when he shoved a wand in my face last week? Yeah, I’d rather keep my bollocks attached to my body, Baz. Wasn’t about to lie to your dad on the off-chance he’s pulling my leg.” Baz lets out a long, slow breath through his nostrils in an attempt to calm down. 

“Was he angry?” he asks eventually, falling back onto the sofa at the end of his bed. 

“Not really,” I shrug, taking a seat beside him. “He, uh, kind of told me he…likes me?” 

_“Kind of?”_ Baz repeats. 

“Well, actually, he pointed at the watch and told me he hates me, and wants me to leave first thing tomorrow morning,” I mumble in clarification. “But the watch face lit up red instead of gold, so that was a lie, I guess? And then he ruffled my hair and gave me a weird pat on the shoulder that I think was supposed to be some sort of hug, and we came back into the den.” 

This rambling last part has Baz more surprised that I’ve ever seen him – even more than when I kissed him the first time, or when I told him I love him. _Shit, he and his dad really need to have a good chat about some things,_ I think to myself. 

(What I don’t tell Baz is that on the back of the watch, Malcolm has had _my_ initials engraved, _S.S._ “So that someday you can have something to pass along to your children, should you choose to have any,” Malcolm had told me in a voice so gentle I almost couldn’t believe it was his own.) 

“Well…I don’t really know what to say,” Baz says finally. “So I’m just going to get dressed, and you should, too. Fiona will be here sometime soon, halfway to pissed, I’m sure, and there’ll be a lot of explaining to do.” 

“Oh fuck, she hates me,” I remember aloud. 

“I’ll explain the situation,” Baz assures me. Something in his eyes makes me think it won’t be so simple, but I’d rather not worry about that right now. 

Instead, I’ll worry about Christmas dinner with the Grimms and Pitches. One of the gifts I got from Daphne (and supposedly Malcolm, but I’m certain he didn’t write his own name on the gift tag) is a suit, and Baz said that’s what I’m to wear to dinner tonight. I am, without a doubt, going to spill gravy or cranberry sauce on it before the night is done. Baz promised he’d still love me, but I don’t believe that extends to his family’s opinion of me as their son’s boyfriend. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

Fiona showed up three-quarters drunk, by my estimates, so at least for tonight, I don’t have to worry about her vaporizing Simon on the spot. I won’t say dinner was pleasant, exactly, but no one died, there were no unexpected fires, and Simon and the children had a good enough time. My father kept glancing between Simon and I the entire time, which I really hope was an attempt to see if we get along well, and not an attempt to guess whether or not we’re shagging or something when we’re alone at night in my bedroom. 

Fiona, of course, asked that question, but had the good sense to wait until the children had left the table to do so. Simon’s freckly face turned a lovely shade of crimson, my father’s head nearly exploded. When we returned to my room after dinner, I found that Daphne (I presume it was her, and not Father) had somehow managed to discreetly tuck a box of condoms into my nightstand drawer (“just in case”, Daphne say when get over my mortification enough to ask, perhaps a decade from now). 

After arranging some kindling in the bedroom hearth, I snap my fingers, and flames lick up the sticks and bark I’ve used as the base of the fire. Simon has seen me summon fire nonverbally before, but regards me in awe when I do it this time. His eyes, which flicker orange and blue in the firelight, are absolutely magical. 

“You’re so fucking cool,” Simon murmurs as I sit down beside him. I see a flash of shiny gift paper in his lap, which reminds me to grab his Christmas gift. 

_**“In the palm of my hand!”**_ I say, concentrating on a mental image of the parcel I’ve got hidden on the top shelf of my cupboard, and willing it to appear before me. When it does, Simon’s mouth falls open for the thousandth time today. (I kind of like how easy it is to impress him. My father is a much more difficult man to please.) 

“Where’d you learn that one?” he inquires, lifting the wrapped box from my hand and giving it a bit of a shake. 

“I read it in one of those books we’ve been looking through in the library,” I say, silently preening. I don’t mind if Snow thinks my spellwork is “bloody fantastic”, or whatever he’d say in that accent of his that makes it impossible to know where he grew up. The charms of foster care, I suppose. 

“Can I open it, or am I just supposed to look at it?” he wonders. 

“Don’t be a knob, Snow.” 

“Aren’t you sweet,” Simon snickers, sliding his fingers beneath the triangular folds at either end of the package. He opens it slowly, savouring the experience in a way that children like Mordelia or the twins are too impatient for. They receive plenty of gifts, which must remove the novelty of it. When he’s finally got the paper off, he carefully slides the lid off the box, and pulls out a plain, gold chain, which he holds up and admires. 

“I should explain,” I tell him, reaching out to touch the chain. “Remember your cross necklace? The one you wore until…” 

“The one that’ll burn you if you’re anywhere near it?” he clarifies. 

“That’s the one,” I say, smirking. “I know it’s a talisman from the Wellbeloves, so I didn’t want to break it or anything, but I made some adjustments to it.” 

“No cross,” he notes, as though it isn’t obvious. 

“I had Daphne wrap that up and tuck it in your bag for safekeeping. So now, instead of repelling your boyfriend, it will do something a little different.” Snow lets me take the chain and put it around his neck, and once I’ve clasped it and let it fall against the skin of his chest, he lets out a little gasp. 

“Can you feel something different about your magic?” I ask hopefully. 

“It’s…it feels, uh, tighter?” he says, hazarding a guess. “I don’t know how else to describe it. It tingles, but feels…yeah, tighter.” 

“I found an enchantment in one of the library’s spellbooks that can be used on certain objects, such as necklaces or bracelets, and it’s supposed to help mages that have a hard time focusing their magic,” I explain. “It took a few tries, and Daphne helped me test it out, but it should help you with some of your spells that end up a little…” I trail off, not wanting to say something offensive. 

“You think it’ll help me not fuck all my spells up,” Simon supplies tactlessly. He touches the chain against his skin, pulls his wand from his pocket, and glances around the room in search of something he could use magic on. He decides on the fire, and with a flick of his wand, puts it out with a well placed _**“Make a wish!”**_

“Well, it’s out, and nothing else is on fire…that we know of,” he sighs in relief. Simon is biting his lip nervously, as though he thought the house might have gone up in flames. 

“Ah ah ah,” I tell him, waggling my finger as I stand up. “Now for the real test.” Opening the door of my room, I holler down the stairs to my parents. “Are all the candles still lit, and the fire in the den?” 

“Yes! Well done, Simon!” Daphne calls back, her voice full of pride. I throw the door closed and spin around. 

“It fucking worked!” I say, pulling Simon into a tight hug. “Simon, it worked!” 

“Holy shit,” he laughs, lifting me and spinning me around in a circle. “I might not be a total fuck-up now!” This stops me in my tracks, and when he sees my shocked expression, Simon sets me down on the ground. 

“You…you don’t really think that, do you?” I ask softly, taking his face in my hands. “I’ve said a lot of things that are completely untrue since I met you, Snow, and it was all because I was too scared to let you get close to me. You’re kind and generous and loyal, and I don’t fucking deserve it, because I’ve been awful to you. But I want to be better now.” I take hold of his hand and lift his arm so that he can see the watch on his wrist. “You are not a fuck-up, and you never were. Anyone who says otherwise can jump in a lake, because they’re dead wrong. I’m so sorry, Simon.” The watch face shimmers gold, but Simon’s eyes never stray from mine. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, before tucking his face into the crook of my neck and having a good, long cry. Warm tears drip down onto my skin and soak into the collar of my shirt, and I’m beyond angry that I did this to him – made him feel this way. Some of it is the Mage, too, and perhaps the parents that abandoned him shortly after his birth. But I’ll apologize to him every day for the rest of my life if it means he’ll see himself the way I see him now. 

When his breathing returns to normal, I bend down and scoop Snow up into my arms – bridal-style – and carry him back to my bed. He sits on the edge and undresses, finally tired enough of wearing a suit that he needs it off – even though he looked stunning in it. I follow his lead, and before long, we’re tucked under the comforter, side-by-side, with Simon’s head against my chest. His curls tickle my cheek, but I like it, and have no interest in moving. 

“Oh, shit, you didn’t get to open your present yet,” Simon remembers. “Teach me how to do that spell you did – I don’t want to get up.” So I walk him through the steps: visualizing the object, imagining it your hand, and the words to the incantation itself. He concentrates, touches his necklace for good measure, and repeats the words with the proper enunciation and emphasis. We’re both delighted when the rectangular gift appears before us, Simon so much that I get a warm kiss on the cheek in return for the lesson. 

It’s my turn to cry when I’ve torn away the paper, because I find myself holding a set of matching photo frames, which I remember commenting on at the Christmas market. One holds a photo of my mother balancing 4-year-old me on her hip, taken in her office at Watford, which I’ve never seen before. The other is of Simon and I, taken here in the library. He’s seated at a table, poring over a book, I’m behind him, leaning over to get a look at what he’s up tp. We’re both smiling, and I’ve got a hand resting comfortably on his shoulder. I can’t even believe this photo exists – we were being careful with our affections whenever we weren’t in my room. 

He won’t admit how he got ahold of these images, other than that Daphne helped, and I decide I don’t care enough to know more. If I weren’t completely gone for a boy, I’d give my stepmother the plethora of grandchildren I know she wants, in return for these two golden moments (and everything else she’s done for Simon and I this week). I turn my face and let me tears drip into Simon’s hair, which has recently taken on the scent of my body wash, which he’s clearly been using in the shower. I love this boy too much to embarrass him by explaining the difference between that and shampoo, and his curls are so soft against my skin that I just don’t give a fuck. 

He’s a mess, but he’s my mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Malcolm have an ulterior (or additional) motive for gifting Simon that watch? Or is he actually accepting that his son is gay for Simon Snow, Bazsexual disaster?


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon and Baz return to Watford, where they confront the Mage. One way or another, their problem is solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you write something, and as you get to what you intended to be the final chapter, you realize you have 10 million loose ends to tie up, and you want to at least try to stay somewhat within canon? Yeah, that's where I'm at. Please forgive me, I truly did try.

**Simon**

After the events of Christmas day at Pitch Manor, Baz and I slowly start to ease into the idea of us being seen as a couple by other people. His parents know we’re more than friends, as does his aunt, though we haven’t technically told them that we’ve put a label on it. We both figure that as cool as Malcolm is being about all of this, it might be best (while I’m here for the hols, at least) if we don’t try to spring too much on him at once. For now, I’m content with being able to refer to Baz as my boyfriend, even if the only person I’m saying it to is myself. 

Mordelia, being the cheeky kid that she is, asked halfway through Boxing Day brunch (to no one in particular) whether “Baz and Simon are boyfriends yet,” at which point Malcolm nearly choked to death on his rashers. As we anticipated, it was one thing for Mr. Grimm to come to terms with the fact that Baz and I fancy each other, but an entirely different matter to consider us being in a formal relationship. Daphne says she’ll work on him. 

We enjoyed the second (and last) week of the break mostly just lounging around at the manor, usually curled up on Baz’s bed, where we watched whatever shit holiday films he’d set to have recorded on the telly. The plots were cheesy and unoriginal, and the same white bloke played the love interest in nearly every film, but the stories were wholesome enough, and Baz seemed to enjoy them (as did his stepmother, apparently). 

Before we know it, it’s the day before we’re due back at Watford. With all the new clothes I’ve acquired, there wasn’t a chance that it would all fit in the small bag I arrived with, so Malcolm offers to take Baz and I out to shop for luggage. Every time I point out a bag I think could work well, the pair of them try to suppress their horror and disdain at my selection, but in the end, none of my suggestions are heeded. Malcolm insists upon spending more money than is reasonable (because of course he does), but I begrudgingly agree when he says that it’s good sense to purchase something of good quality that will last a long time, even if it comes at a higher cost. 

Baz and I pack our bags in the afternoon while Daphne sits on the sofa we’ve been pretending is my bed. She runs through a list of all the things we might need so as to ensure we won’t forget anything important like socks or antiperspirant. Every now and again Baz will complain and tell her to stop harping on us, but since I’ve never had a mother figure to look after me, I secretly don’t mind. Really, I think Baz likes it, too, but feels that he should put up a bit of a fuss just to maintain his image. (He doesn’t need to – Daphne and I both know that he’s a big softie at heart. 

We take the train most of the way north with Fiona, who rents a car at the train station and insists on driving us to Watford instead of letting us take a cab for the last leg of the trip. She blasts actual good music the whole way and I love her for it. Baz asks multiple times for her to turn it down, or at least to roll up the windows so we aren’t bothering pedestrians and other drivers, but to no avail. Fi and I shout the lyrics to her 70s and 80s playlists like it’s the only chance we’ll ever have to do so. 

Baz and I realize in the 10 minutes before we arrive back at school that we haven’t discussed if or whom to tell that we’re dating. I’m not sure this will actually be news to anyone, seeing as we’ve been obsessed with each other for years now. We’ve just shifted from constant arguing to aggressive flirting, and instead of punches, we’re exchanging kisses. 

“How are we supposed to keep this from the Mage?” Baz asks gently, as though reading my mind. Fiona pretends not to be listening, focusing instead on the cigarette dangling from her hand and the _Duran Duran_ song she’s got playing for background noise. “Do we just…keep pretending to hate each others’ guts anytime we’re outside our room?” 

“He’s come to Mummers before,” I inform him, “Only once, though. He probably won’t come by if it isn’t an emergency.” Baz’s face twists into a frown, disappointed that even our room isn’t a guaranteed safe space, and the feeling is mutual. We were so focused on each other over the break that we didn’t put much thought into the public aspect of being in a relationship. Well, we both thought about it, but kept putting it off later and later because it was a lot less fun than cuddling and watching _Love, Actually._

“Well, fuck,” Baz sighs. “How am I supposed to sit around and watch you being the disaster that you are without touching you?” His words are fairly innocent, but still make me blush. Baz’s fingers tangle with mine, and he holds my hand tightly, wanting to be close for as long as we’re able. 

“Oh, shit, I’ve got to come up with a story about what I did over the holidays,” I realize now that I’ve spent some time thinking about how we’re going to avoid scrutiny from the Mage. “He always asks, even though he never seems to actually care what it was I did.” 

“You’re not going to lie and say you were with the Wellbeloves, are you?” Baz asks, raising an eyebrow. “He could easily call her parents and debunk that story in two minutes, you know.” 

“Shit,” I repeat, tangling my one free hand in my hair and pulling. 

“You could just tell him like it is, and not give a shit what he thinks,” Fiona offers, blowing out a cloud of smoke out her window. “Why the fuck does Davy get a say in who you’re shagging, Simon?” 

Baz nearly spits out the sip of his fancy coffee he just took. 

“FIONA,” he shouts, “you can’t just say things like that whenever they pop into your head. Firstly, because it’s not your business, and secondly, it’s NOT YOUR BUSINESS.” He squeezes his eyes shut and his head falls back against the cushioned headrest. I give his hand a quick squeeze of reassurance, but he doesn’t open his eyes or respond. I know Fiona’s only taking the piss because she knows she’ll get a rise out of him. 

“I’m, uh, mostly just concerned for Baz,” I tell her, ignoring my flaming-red reflection in the rearview mirror. “I don’t want the Mage to make his life difficult, or put more scrutiny on Baz than there needs to be.” 

“You want to keep sharing a room, more like,” Fiona smirks, meeting my eyes in the mirror. 

“Th-that’s part of it, sure,” I admit. “The Mage never let us switch rooms any of the thousand times we asked when we were younger, but he would probably change his mind if he knew about this. He’s a bit…possessive of me.” 

“That’s because he’s using you as a weapon and as his errand-boy,” Baz grouches. 

Ugh. This again? 

“I know you hate him, and that he’s not the world’s best guardian by any means, but you don’t have to talk shit about him when I’m around,” I huff, annoyed. 

“Simon, he’s _using_ you,” he sighs, turning to look at me. “He sends you into dangerous situations, thinking you’re bulletproof. You’re a child, for snakes’ sake – we both are!” I know he’s saying this out of love and concern for me, but I still don’t appreciate it. 

“Let’s not talk about this now,” I seethe, casting a glance at his aunt in the hopes that he’ll take a hint. I think Fiona’s grand, now that I’ve had the chance to get to know her a bit better, but she’s still a Pitch. She can and will take anything I say back to the Old Families, who are raring for ammunition against the Mage. 

“No need to get worked up, Snow,” Baz tells me, grasping my hand firmly with both of his. “Take a breath, and we’ll talk about this later. For now, let’s just focus on not turning Fi’s car into a bomb right for all of Watford to see.” I look beyond the dashboard of the car and see that the school is indeed right in front of us. We caught the early train, and according to my watch, we’ve just missed lunch. _Fuck._

Fiona is watching us in the rearview, her eyes flickering between Baz and I. I guess it doesn’t take a vampire to smell the stench of magic radiating from my body. 

If anyone else said that kind of shit to me, it would make me even angrier, but because it’s Baz, it does actually help a little. He has a way of talking me down, even if he could do with a bit more tact. 

“Hate to cut this party short, boyos, but we’ve arrived,” Fiona announces, relieved at the prospect of getting the ticking time bomb and her vampire nephew out of her vehicle as soon as possible. “Try not to kill each other, and remember to use protect—” 

“Fiona,” Baz growls as he opens his door forcefully enough that it nearly comes right off in his hand. His aunt swats at him, cursing his strength. “I just bought this two months ago, Basilton, so don’t you fucking break it!” 

“Thanks for the ride, Fi,” I say loudly as I open the boot to grab our luggage. She blows a kiss at me through the back window, which I mindlessly pretend to catch and press to my cheek. This has her howling, and me wishing I could just disappear off the face of the planet. 

“I hate you. Don’t call me,” Baz says when he leans into her open window and kisses her cheek. “And don’t you dare suggest to Father that anything _untoward_ is happening between Snow and I. The man is half a strop from a full-on aneurysm as it is.” 

“See you both at Easter break!” Fiona calls after us as we shoulder our bags and make for the front door at Mummers. 

“She’s mental,” Baz says, speaking into the void. “Absolutely mental. And yet, I love her.” 

“She loves you,” I say, smiling, “And I know you know it. I wish—” I cut myself off. 

“You wish…?” Baz repeats, setting his bag down to open the door for me. I nod my thanks before passing over the threshold, but put our conversation on pause as we walk through the common room on the building’s main floor. A few of the fifth- and sixth-year guys are lounging around on the sofas, giving us curious looks as we make for the staircase up into our turret. We’ve never walked in together, or had a civil conversation in front of other people, I realize as we pass them. 

Once we’re in our room, we shuck our bags off and take a look around at the place, which looks to me almost exactly as it did before we left. _Almost._

“Don’t touch anything,” I say suddenly, stopping Baz before he can unzip his bag and start to unpack. “Someone’s been in here.” 

“Cleaners?” he suggests, not particularly concerned. Still, he does as I say. 

“We don’t have cleaners here,” I remind him, rolling my eyes. “We’re not all posh twats like you with big fancy mansions, _Baz._ ” I run my hands up and along the frames of both doors, but find nothing there. 

“I don’t remember you complaining about my big fancy mansion while you were staying with me,” he asserts, watching me with amusement as I go down onto my knees to take a peek beneath the beds. “In fact, I think that after all your years in care, you might have even enjoyed the high life. Rich people have excellent pudding, don’t you know.” 

“Shut up for a minute and let me work,” I huff, ignoring his comments. He’s right – I did enjoy the ‘no work, all play’ aspect of staying with Baz. It gave us more time to just hang out, instead of having to clean up after ourselves constantly. I’d never had that opportunity before. It’s just that I’d rather not be distracted right now. I’ve got a weird feeling about our room. 

When I stand up, I pause, feeling a little tug at the edges of my magic. I may not be able to control my magic anywhere near as well as Baz can, but I’m excellent at picking up on the presence magical wards, as well as spells intended for nefarious purposes. I kind of have to be, with all the weird adventures the Mage has sent me on. 

“Baz, reach out with your magic and let me know if anything feels…off, or weird, will you?” He looks to me with a frown, but does as I ask, concentrating his vamp senses on the magical traces within our room. “It might just be me, but I’m picking up something other than the anathema.” The only magic usually applied to our room, other than silencing spells for when Baz wants to practice violin or something, is the roommate’s anathema (also known as the only reason the two of us are still living, after bunking together for 7 years). 

“…Yes, I can feel it,” he confirms. He pulls his wand from his pocket, positions himself in the centre of the room, and traces along the edges of the walls from where he stands, murmuring, “ _ **Show yourself,**_ ” over and over. 

A yellow-gold shimmer stains the plastic cover of our light switch, as well the cover over one of the power outlets on Baz’s side of the room. We both approach the outlet, crouching down side-by-side, and Baz touches the tip of his wand to each of the screws that secures the plastic cover, whispers something I can’t hear (I can’t help but giggle internally, because what if the spell is something like _**“Screw off**_?”), and gently pulls the plate away. 

He presses a finger to his lips to shush me before I can run my mouth, but I’ve seen enough Normal police shows to know that the little black object hidden in our wall is some sort of microphone. And that means that someone is listening in on us. Baz puts the plate back properly, and we both leave our things right where we set them down a few minutes ago before leaving the room. 

Once we’re out on the landing, Baz repeats his revealing spell, but nothing lights up, so it feels safer for us to talk. He leans against the wall on one side of the stairwell, and I sit on the top step. 

“How long do you think that thing has been there?” he asks, keeping his expression as even as he can for a guy who’s just realizing that he’s possibly had his enemy spying on him for who knows how long. 

“I don’t even know what to think,” I say, threading my hands into my hair and gripping it tightly between my fingers. It kind of hurts, but it’s also the only way I’m able to relieve the tension in my body that doesn’t involve destroying something of historical value in this building. My stomach is swirling, and I feel like I’m on the edge of sicking up all over the stairs. 

“I never even thought to look for that sort of thing before,” Baz admits. “With you around, I assumed the Mage would just ask you to watch me.” 

“He did.” Baz has nothing to say to this. I don’t think he’s angry, though. 

“This is like a fucking James Bond film,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “This is insane.” 

“Do you think—” Baz starts. 

“I think the Mage tried contacting me over the hols, and I wasn’t where he thought I was going to be,” I sigh. “And if he wasn’t suspicious of us before then, he is now.” My magic is humming around me, but I don’t think it’s getting any bigger. Baz usually says something if he feels that I’m about to go off. 

“Who knew you were coming to visit me?” 

“Just Penny,” I shrug. “Agatha knew I wasn’t staying with her, but I didn’t give her any more than that. And I guess anyone who saw that I stayed on the train with you.” 

What neither of us is voicing is the obvious question: What the fuck do we do now? Usually, I ask Penny, but a) I don’t know whether she’s back from break yet, and b) anyone could be watching us and feeding information back to the Mage. As far as I see it, we’re shit out of luck. 

“What if,” Baz suggests evenly, “We both go to the Mage’s office, but I wait outside while you talk to him? That way you aren’t alone in the event that he starts trouble, and on the off-chance that we’re completely off-base – that is, he really has no idea that there’s anything going on between us – and it’s just entirely a coincidence that he’s got our room bugged at the exact same time that our weird sleep-brain connection is going on.” 

“Well, when you put it that way,” I huff, glaring up at him, “There’s really no way for me to defend him being not evil, is there?” 

“Simon, love…” Baz hesitates, actually looking remorseful about shit-talking the Mage for the first time in his life. “I really am sorry. I know what he means to you, but…this can’t possibly be a coincidence. You _do_ know that, right?” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

And I mean it; I’ve known for a while, deep down, that the Mage has never been doing things just for the good of society. He’s sent me into situations that no child, even an indestructible force of nature like me, should be expected to handle. He makes me go back to care homes every summer, even though I could stay here at Watford, or live with him. I hate to say Baz is right on this, but it’s become impossible to ignore or deny that the Mage’s intentions aren’t as pure as I’ve always insisted upon believing. 

I don’t realize that I’ve started to cry until I feel Baz’s chest against my back, and his legs are on either side of mine. He’s sat himself down behind me so he can hold me, it seems. Once his arms are snug around my middle and I feel the cool of his breath as he whispers words of comfort into my ear, I lose it. 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

I’m no stranger to seeing Snow cry. In fact, I spent years purposely trying to make him cry. He was a scrawny little imp of a child, and I felt not a drop of remorse when he curled up under his bedclothes and shook like a leaf in the wind. More recently, I’ve seen him cry when someone (again, usually me) pisses him off, or when he’s frustrated with his magic. All that being said, I’m completely unprepared to deal with whatever _this_ is. 

My siblings tend to scream and wail endlessly when they’re sad or uncomfortable. Simon is currently the opposite; his whole body is shaking, and his face is wet with tears, but there’s no sound coming out. For a moment, I wonder whether he’s actually breathing or not, but his skin isn’t turning blue, and I hear him sniff every once in a while. I’m holding him as best I can, but I’m certain we just look like a fucking bendy straw is wrapped haphazardly around a brick. Snow’s a rugger through and through. 

Nothing about this is okay, so instead of saying that, I rest my chin on his shoulder and murmur “I’ve got you” every once in a while until he’s settled down. Thank Merlin that the landing outside our room isn’t visible from the next room down the stairs, because there’s really no rational explanation besides “We’re in love,” for the scene that’s laid out up here. 

“Okay, let’s go,” Snow grunts once he’s wiped his nose and his face on his sleeve. It’s a fucking disgusting habit of his, but now’s not the time to say so. 

I squeeze my arms around his torso in a weird hug before releasing him, just in case he’s feeling terribly embarrassed by his breakdown or something. Toxic masculinity is a real thing, and I’m beyond certain that Simon was raised believing that “real men don’t cry,” or some bullshit like that. 

Neither of us talk as we descend the stairs. In the common room, the same boys as before are sitting around, but now that they see that Snow’s red-rimmed eyes and snot-faucet of a nose, they act as if they’re concerned. 

“Alright, Simon?” One kid asks, standing up from his seat. 

“Fine,” Snow nods, pasting on a fake smile. 

“Pitch giving you a hard time?” Another random I don’t recognize feels it necessary to ask. 

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know,” I sneer, pulling a face like I might have in grade school. 

“Baz,” Snow warns, glancing over his shoulder at me. I grimace apologetically, but my expression goes dark when I look back at Random Kid. What am I, a five-year-old? I don’t have a monopoly on Snow’s attention and affections, but apparently I can’t stop acting like a brat when someone else tries to check in with him. 

We keep a bit of distance between us as we walk from Mummers House to the Weeping Tower, where the Mage has his office and private rooms. I want nothing more than to hold his hand as he walks into this shitstorm, but it wouldn’t look good for our case if the Mage were to glance out the window and see us skipping across the lawn like a pair of fairies (and by that, I’m referring to the magickal creature, not the slang term for homosexuals – though both technically apply). 

Our loosely assembled plan comes apart as soon as we reach the high-ceilinged foyer outside the Mage’s office. He must have some sort of alarm spell on the stairs to alert him that someone is coming up, because he’s waiting for us in the centre of the room, where the Watford seal is visible in the marble tiles beneath his feet. 

“Simon, my boy,” the Mage calls out with feigned surprise. His gaze falls on Snow, flickering to me for a split second. “Welcome back. You enjoyed the holiday break, I hope?” 

“I did, thanks,” Snow says with a single nod. “And yourself?” 

“Busy as always, as I’m sure you can imagine.” 

Snow doesn’t approach the Mage, choosing instead to stop a few feet past the top of the stairs. There’s an awkward gap of about 10 feet between the two. Not sure where Snow wants me, I take my place at his right shoulder, keeping a more appropriate distance. I have to guess at what’s appropriate, because right now, he’s not my boyfriend – he’s the roommate I’ve been trying (unsuccessfully) to distance myself from for seven years. 

“And Mr. Pitch,” the Mage greets me belatedly, his smile faltering. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” I don’t have an answer for him, but apparently Simon does. 

“Sir, did you by any chance use magic to connect Baz’s and my dreams?” He asks bluntly. Not quite what I expected, but a very Simon way to get to the bottom of an issue in a timely fashion, I suppose. 

“Did I…what now?” The Mage asks, turning his head as if he didn’t quite catch it. When Snow doesn’t repeat himself, a mask of impassivity settles over the man’s face. “No, of course not, Simon. Tell me more about this…connection.” 

Simon’s arms are clasped behind his back, so it’s me that sees the face of his watch, which he smartly (and without me noticing) turned to the opposite side of his wrist in order that it might be out of the Mage’s sight (but still within mine). Snow catches my slight frown from the corner of his eye, and continues his interrogation. 

“Agatha and I broke up, so I stayed with Baz and his family over the break,” Simon shares, stopping to give the Mage a moment to process and react. When the man’s face remains blank, Snow takes it as a sign that this isn’t new information. I concur. 

“And we’re dating now, Baz and I,” Simon adds. “Is that going to be an issue?” _I know you’re not a huge fan of the Pitches_ goes unsaid, but the sentiment is there nonetheless. 

“Well, I—maybe we should take this somewhere more _private,_ ” the Mage offers, sweeping an arm towards his door. He looks like a fucking muppet in his green tights and matching tunic; I literally can’t stand looking at this man. He also has a sheathed sword hanging from his belt, so I’m not about to say those things out loud. 

“I’m fine right here,” Simon dares to say. Rage flashes in the Mage’s eyes, but he doesn’t yell or pull his sword out. Instead, he just nods. 

“As you like. I’m sure you can understand – given the tense relationship between myself and the Pitch family – why I might have some _concerns_ about a romantic relationship between you and Basilton,” he says coolly. “But if this is what you want, Simon, I don’t have any other issue with the matter.” The watch face flashes R-E-D, red. 

“That sounds fake, but okay,” I can’t help but snort. Simon shoots me a look of annoyance, but doesn’t scold me. Usually, it’s me telling him off for blurting things out when he should really hold his tongue. 

“I assure you, Mr. Pitch,” the Mage says, narrowing his eyes as he turns to me, “That I have no problem with same-sex relationships. I’m sorry if you don’t think well enough of me to believe that.” 

“Oh, well at least you don’t mind that we’re both guys,” I snark, my voice rising in pitch. _Wow, I really need to chill out._ “What about my family’s political leanings? Or the fact that I get a little _thirsty_ sometimes? Do those things _concern_ you as well?” 

“Baz, stop,” Simon murmurs, setting a hand on my arm. Spoiler alert: I don’t stop. 

“I know you’re the one that had me locked up beneath a bridge for 6 weeks at the start of the year,” I continue as anger bubbles hotter and hotter in my chest. “And I know you wanted to steal my mother’s job.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Pitch,” the Mage replies, his voice dangerously low. Simon’s watch glows red – another lie – and this time everyone sees it. 

I’ve got my wand out of my pocket in half a second, and my fangs have sprung from my gums, but somehow the Mage draws his faster. My eyes go wide as the man’s mouth forms the words of what I’m sure will be a deadly spell, and I brace myself internally for what will quite possibly be my death. 

_**“FREEZE,”**_ Simon thunders, his own wand still in his back pocket. The sound is enormous, magnified by the domed ceiling above us. A blue-white flash of lightning strikes the Mage where he stands, and the room is suddenly flooded by the smoky tang of Snow’s magic. It’s so thick I almost choke on the stuff. Oh, wait – this actually _is_ smoke, and I _am_ choking. Stone and glass are falling around us, but none of it hits me. It’s as if an invisible bubble surrounds me; all the debris just bounces off of it. 

“Simon!” I shout, reaching through the haze in an attempt to grab an arm or his shoulder. When I inhale, I’m wracked by a fit of coughing, and my chest hurts like hell. “SIMON, are you okay?” 

“Meet me on the stairs,” he croaks in reply a moment later. He sounds like a toad with COPD, but his voice is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard today because he’s _alive._

* * * * * 

**Simon**

To be honest, I don’t remember much of the conversation I had with the Mage. I remember feeling Baz’s magic seize up beside me, a blue flash of who-the-fuck-knows-what, and waking up dazed and confused at the foot of the Weeping Tower – what’s left of it, that is. 

Through the window of the infirmary, I can see that the part of the tower that once contained the headmaster’s quarters is no longer in existence. There’s a gaping hole where it used to be, through which part of the spiral staircase is visible. That must be how we got down. Or how Baz got down, at least. My head is throbbing as if I fell off the tower and smashed it against a jagged rock at ground level, so it’s quite possible that I took the road less travelled by. 

Baz is curled up beside me in bed, much to the matron’s displeasure. She’s come round to scowl at Baz at least three times now to insist that I need “space to rest” (which is probably just her being homophobic). He just scowls right back and snuggles closer. I hate to make him get up to ask for the matron, but this pain has me seeing double, and I think asking nicely for medication will probably get better results than just screaming and hoping she hears me from her office. 

About an hour before would usually sit down to dinner, a group of adults I recognize as Coven members make their way into the infirmary, where they gather at the end of my bed. There are no chairs for them, and there’s not a chance I’ll be permitted to leave this bed, so they have to stand. Baz’s father and Fiona are amongst them, which I assume is the reason Baz feels obligated to stand up instead of remaining beside me. 

“Mr. Snow, I’m sorry to hear that you are feeling unwell,” a dark-eyed woman in a fitted black skirt suit tells me, “But after the events of the day, it’s quite understandable.” She introduces herself as the spokeswoman of the Coven, and names the other members of the group as well, but they all fly over my head. I’m sure Baz can remind me later, if need be. 

“I, um…sorry for blowing up the Weeping Tower,” I say, swallowing hard. “Didn’t mean to do it.” 

“No, I’m certain that was not your intention, Mr. Snow,” the woman smiles kindly. “Mr. Pitch here explained what occurred during your confrontation with the Mage this afternoon, so we won’t ask any other questions about that at this time. However…” She stops and turns to Malcolm, who steps closer to my bed. 

“We thought you might like to know that the Mage is alive, Simon,” he says softly. “We aren’t sure how exactly it happened, but when we reached the top of the Weeping Tower, we found that…well, he was encased in a block of ice.” 

“What?” I whip around to look at Baz. “My spell worked. Did you…did you see him?” 

“There was too much smoke, and I just focused on getting us the hell out of there,” he explains, shaking his head. “I heard you yell ‘Freeze’, and then the ceiling was falling down around us.” 

“So he’s alive,” I repeat, turning back to Malcolm. “What are you going to do with him?” 

“There will be an inquiry into several offenses we – the Coven, that is – believe him to have orchestrated or been involved in,” Malcolm says. “He has been thawed, for lack of a better term, and is in our custody until further notice. A new headmaster will be appointed as soon as possible, so the interruption to the term will be minimal.” 

Everyone is watching my reaction, and it’s making me feel like some sort of experiment, or a weird animal at the zoo. I know they probably mean well. The Mage always insisted I hide the extent of my magic from the Coven, because they might try to use me. I hate that it’s taken all of this for me to realize that I was already being used. 

“I’m sure you’re exhausted, Mr. Snow,” the spokeswoman says, pulling me from my ruminations. “We’ll let you get some rest now. At some point in the future, we want to meet with you again to discuss your very _unique_ abilities, but for now, we trust that you are in safe hands here at Watford. Do you have any other questions?” 

“No. Thanks for coming by,” I say, lying back against my pillows. I’m not actually as tired as she seems to think, but I _am_ ready for these people to leave. Malcolm and Fiona stick around for a few minutes, just to make sure Baz and I aren’t secretly on the edge of a meltdown or something, I think. I get a handshake from Mr. Grimm, and another hug from Fiona. Baz takes his place beside me when everyone is gone. 

“How are you really?” He inquires, pressing a quick kiss to my temple. “This is a lot for you to process, especially after everything that happened today.” Baz buries his face in my hair and puts a protective arm over my chest. 

“I don’t know what to say,” I mumble, knowing he’ll still hear me. “I thought the Mage…maybe cared about me? He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a dad, but he wasn’t that at all. He just wanted to have access to my magic, I think, and he couldn’t have it without also keeping me around.” 

“I’m sorry,” Baz says, his breath ruffling my curls as he speaks into them. He might hate the Mage, but he loves me, so I know he’s being sincere. “I know you cared about him, and trusted him.” 

“I hope the inquiry thing will give us some answers,” I shrug, trying to pretend I’m not too shaken by this whole betrayal business. “You deserve to know if he was involved with the numpties, and with your mum.” As soon as I say it, I feel like kicking myself. Yes, the Mage betrayed me, but it’s possible he had Baz _kidnapped_ , and his mother _murdered._ I’m literally whining about nothing in comparison. 

“Simon, I can smell you thinking,” Baz teases. I feel the curve of his mouth against my head, so I know he’s smiling. “We’ll worry about all of that when the time comes, alright? I want to know the truth, of course, and so do you. But,” he says, taking hold of my hand, “First, let’s get you all rested up, and then we’ll take it one step at a time, okay?” 

“Right,” I agree, shifting my body so I can pull him closer. “As long as you stay right here with me.” Baz hums as if he’s thinking it over. 

“I suppose I could stick around,” he says thoughtfully. “It would be a lot quieter up in Mummers without you, but I might get bored with no one else around for me to hurl insults at.” Rolling my eyes, I turn my head so I can see those lovely grey eyes of his. He’s smiling like he did over the break, showing his teeth and everything. I never want to see his fake smile again. 

“Shut up, you wanker,” I growl. Baz touches the tip of his nose to mine and raises an eyebrow. 

“Make me.” 

* * * * * 

**Baz**

It’s been a few weeks since the incident with the Mage, and everything has settled down at Watford for the most part. For a few nights after he was released from the infirmary, Simon had bad dreams that I (of course) got tugged along on. Thankfully, that was fixed as soon as we had the brilliant idea of pushing our beds together and connecting them at the centre to create one big bed. Better for cuddling, which I strongly believe to be the cure for nightmares. 

It’s much easier to be roommates with someone you really like, and who likes you back, I’ve discovered. Now that I don’t have to pretend I hate Snow, I can walk over and hug him when he’s getting frustrated over an assignment. It’s much more effective than calling him an idiot, I have to say. With all that being said, there are still a few kinks to work out in our new roommate agreement – namely, Simon’s obnoxious habit of playing (and singing along to) terrible music where I’m also forced to hear it. 

“Snow, I love you,” I’ve just told him, “But if you don’t turn that horrible racket the fuck off, I _will_ spell you mute until after graduation.” He ignores my threat, because apparently Katy Perry matters more to him than his ability to communicate with others. 

Ever since I gave him permission to turn the wireless on at a low volume (as long as I’m not studying), he’s taken complete advantage of it. I’m on the verge of throwing that stupid radio out the window. 

The song he’s doing an awful job of singing along to is one I recognize, because last term he used to hum it to himself constantly, except for the chorus, which he knew the words to. He’s learned about 75% of the song at this point. Knowing 100% of the words wouldn’t help, because he’d still be tone deaf. 

Because I’ve heard this song so many times (and for that reason only – I take _no_ pleasure from hearing it _at all_ ) I find myself tuning into the lyrics as it comes to an end. I turn around to glare at Snow, only to find that he’s making eyes at me, and is performing an extremely suggestive dance along with the lyrics (some of which are still not correct). 

_Come on, put your hands on me_  
_In my skin-tight jeans_  
_Be your teenage dream tonight._

In another world, Simon’s sexy dance might have done something for me. But in _this_ world, I realize – just as Simon himself comes to the same realization – that my idiot boyfriend, the most powerful mage in the world, imbued magic into the lyrics of an American pop song, which created a magical connection between our minds. 

“You are fucking joking me,” I say, glaring at him. “You…no. Just no.” 

“Oh my god.” His mouth is hanging open, but I’m too distracted to tell him to close it. No manners, this boy. “Baz, we’re…so we’re teenagers.” 

“Well spotted, Captain Obvious,” I snap, marching across the room and grabbing him by the shoulders. “Simon Snow, I truly cannot believe you right now. We’ve been trying to solve this stupid mystery for _weeks._ We tore the whole bloody library apart at my parents’ house. You asked _the Mage,_ for snakes’ sake. And after all of that, it turns out that KATY FUCKING PERRY is responsible?” 

“Well, uh, actually, it’s technically me,” he stammers, somehow thinking that correcting me is a good decision right now. I’ve literally never been so embarrassed in my life. 

My father, one of the wealthiest, most powerful and well-respected mages in all of Britain, has been calling doctors, psychologists, psychiatrists, and who the fuck knows who else, in an attempt to help Simon and I get this dealt with. How the hell am I supposed to go to him and explain that my absolute numpty of a boyfriend cast a _pop song_ over us because he can’t control his magic properly? It was embarrassing enough to admit that some of the dreams were of us snogging! 

“Snow, I’m going to say this once, and only once,” I tell him, taking a deep breath before I continue. “Find Bunce, bring her here, and if you truly love me, don’t you fucking dare say a word about this to another human as long as you live. Do I make myself clear?” 

* * * * * 

**Penny**

Baz and Simon will _never_ live this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope y'all were able to get through the series and pretend that the Humdrum doesn't exist in this universe? Idk folks, hope you at least enjoyed some part of it! I'd never really done any Simon and Baz before this, but I had so much fun with it (apart from writing this chapter, which stumped me for almost a month).
> 
> As for the ending, the idea for Simon to have accidentally cast a song (and that song in specific) came to me at work after I'd already written the first couple chapters, and it made me laugh so hard I literally couldn't not use it.


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